


The Wand That Chose Two Wizards

by talkingtravesties



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Artist Luna Lovegood, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Depressed Harry, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potions, Romance, Slash, Slow Burn, Teacher Harry, Wandmaker draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-06-09 18:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 69,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15273564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtravesties/pseuds/talkingtravesties
Summary: Harry Potter returns to Hogwarts to finish off his seventh year, but finds that it’s very different than the Hogwarts he once knew. He’s sharing a common room with all the other eighth year students, he’s no longer sure if he wants to become an Auror, his best friends are constantly off snogging, and his Potions partner, Draco Malfoy, is acting nothing like his usual bratty self.Draco Malfoy wants nothing less than to go back to Hogwarts, but for his mother, he does it anyway. While he hopes he can hole up in his room and do nothing but homework for the year, he finds himself despising his terrible new wand, befriending an inexplicably odd Ravenclaw, secretly taking Muggle Studies classes, and willingly helping the Saviour of the Wizarding World himself, Harry Potter. It’s going to be a very interesting year.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO FRIENDS.  
> This is my first attempt at a Drarry fic and knowing me, I'm going to be slow as fuck writing it, so I apologize in advance for any long stretches between updates. I hope you all like it and please let me know what you think <3

Draco began to regret his decision no less than two seconds after the train departed King’s Cross Station.

He stood in the middle of the compartment—the one he had always frequented with Crabbe and Goyle, as it was the first one the sweets cart would stop at—his hand firmly clenched around the wand in his pocket, still gazing out the window, even though his mother’s face was long gone.

With a deep breath, he unclenched his hand and withdrew the wand from his pocket before sitting down by the window.

He twirled the wand between both of his hands, observing the way the light bounced off the shining wood. A long fifteen inches, Draco still wasn’t used to the way it fit in his hand.

He had been in somewhat of a rush when he’d gotten it, not wanting to be seen by anyone, and he’d been far too ashamed to go to Ollivander’s after the ordeal the senior wandmaker had been through at his own home, so he settled for some back-alley wand shop. The owner had been so thrilled to have a customer, Draco thought he could’ve been the Dark Lord himself and he still would’ve been happily seen to.

Draco had gone through only two wands before losing his patience. After the first two—“vine wood with veela hair, vivacious, quite bendy!” and “pine and kelpie mane, very strong!”—had both resulted in rather loud explosions of a coat hanger and then a window, Draco had decided he’d rather not have anyone walking in to see a Malfoy exploding things.

“I don’t need some aggressively powerful weapon.” he had gritted out in a low tone. “I just want a regular damn wand.”

The owner’s wide grin had faltered a little, but it quickly returned and he’d said, excitedly, “I know just the wand!”

Now in his solitary compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Draco gently flicked the wand, muttering, “Lumos.”

The end of the wand emitted a soft, yellowy light before flickering and completely dying out.

He snorted to himself, remembering the way the wandmaker had described it.

“Redwood and kneazle hair, fifteen inches, pliable. Gentle wand. Known to bring luck! Best suited for those who always make the right choice!”

Make the right choice, eh?

 _Idiot_ , Draco thought to himself.

But nothing had exploded when he took the wand, so he’d paid five Galleons—an absurd price for a wand of such shabby quality—and left as quickly as he could. Once he had gotten home, he tested a few simple spells with his new wand and it turned out not to be entirely useless. It seemed to handle basic charms without much difficulty and it certainly wasn’t an aggressive wand.

But it wasn’t his wand, and despite his efforts to be satisfied with it, Draco found himself feeling a certain reproach for it, which he knew would not help its efficiency.

He went to tuck it back into his pocket, but its length caused it to stick out and so, frustrated, he tossed it into the seat across from him. A sad little golden spark erupted from the tip as he did so.

“Known to bring luck, my arse.” he mumbled, though he knew of course no one was listening.

Merlin knew he could use a little luck these days.

After the trial, he’d been sure all he wanted to do was hide in his room for months, if not years, and never see anyone again. If nothing else, he was utterly exhausted. The last two years of his life had seemed like a never-ending nightmare and he hadn’t dared to think of what would come afterwards. He hadn’t even dared to hope there would be an afterwards.

He certainly hadn’t imagined he’d be sitting on the Hogwarts Express on September 1st, in a compartment all by himself, feeling disdainful towards a stupid wand.

It was his mother’s fault, really.

She had never explicitly said that she wanted Draco to go back to school, but in the end she made up her mind.

After the trials—after they took Lucius away—Draco expected his mother to fall apart. He expected to step into his role as man of the house, as Lucius had always told him he would one day. He was prepared to take care of his grieving mother and devote all of his energy and focus to her. She deserved that.

But Narcissa did not fall apart. She had been allowed a goodbye with Lucius, during which she spoke to him in a reassuring voice and told him she would inquire about visitations, and when they’d hauled him off, she had gripped Draco’s arm and turned him away, rather fiercely walking him towards the Ministry’s Floo network.

Draco had supposed she was simply keeping up appearances—his mother always made sure she looked impeccable and untouchable when in public.

“Never let people know more about you than they need to,” she had always said to him.

Narcissa hadn’t broken down at home either, though. Draco had kept waiting, walking on eggshells around her, wanting to be there when her façade dissolved.

But it never did.

She had declared it her personal mission to deeply cleanse Malfoy Manor, and she was unstoppable. Even the remaining house elves—only two, Polkey and Cobby—hadn’t been able to slow her down, and Merlin knows they’d tried, working through the night sometimes, but she had been determined to do much of the dirty work themselves. Eventually Draco had quietly told them not to punish themselves when they saw her scrubbing floors, that she wanted to be doing it.

He had no idea why she did want to, but the one time he tried to stop her, it did not end well.

“Draco, you’re old enough to know what Dark Magic does when it’s left to fester. Cleaning this house will take more than simply washing windows.” she’d said briskly and returned to her work.

She had been right, of course. Malfoy Manor had been tainted with Dark Magic, Draco felt it in every corner, felt it seeping from the walls, rising from the floors.

He hated it.

It was much better than how it used to be, when the Dark Lord was using it as his headquarters. But that certainly wasn’t saying much, and Draco still awoke in the middle of the night drenched in sweat with his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

To Draco’s surprise, Narcissa had been making great strides, and the house elves had become much happier once Narcissa had discovered that elf magic was actually stronger at removing Dark Magic and allowed them to busy themselves with the great purging of the Manor.

Draco felt that he wasn’t as needed around the house as his father had made him believe he would be. He’d found that he didn’t mind much, however, as he quickly took to spending most of his days lying in bed. When he could sleep, he did, because despite the nightmares, being conscious was much worse, as it left him alone with his thoughts far more than he liked, and his mind was not a place he felt safe in anymore.

Finally, one day, Narcissa had marched into his room with a determined look on her face, her normally perfectly sleek hair looking frazzled and wild, and dust covering her robes.

“That’s quite enough sulking, Draco, it’s time you get up.”

Draco had just looked at her, barely sitting up from his horizontal position on the bed.

“If your father were here, he would be furious,” she’d said, changing tactics.

“Yes, well, Father’s in Azkaban, so I’m sure he’s got bigger things to worry about.” Draco had responded, still not making any moves to rise from his bed.

“If you’re not going to be any help around the house, you may as well be doing something to better your own future.”

At this, Draco had finally looked up at her. Her arms had folded and she was regarding him with a scolding look, like when he was a child and got caught chasing after the peacocks in the garden.

“My future? Mother, I have no future.”

Narcissa had simply tutted at him. “Don’t be so dramatic, Draco, of course you do. I received a letter from Professor McGonagall; they’re inviting the students of your year back to Hogwarts to properly finish off their seventh year. You’re going to do just that.”

Draco had gotten very close to asking his mother if she had lost his mind.

“Hogwarts? You want me to go back to Hogwarts? After all the—after we—after the war?”

Narcissa had looked resolute.

“Yes. You haven’t completed your N.E.W.T’s and you will not be able to acquire any respectable job without them.”

Draco had gaped at her, wondering how she couldn’t see that he would never be able to get any respectable job due to the bloody _Dark Mark_ seared into his forearm. He had wanted to argue, but he’d recognized that look on her face, that look that clearly said nothing on earth could change her mind.

“I haven’t even got a wand,” he’d said weakly, in a last-ditch attempt.

“Then we’ll get you a new one,” she’d answered simply, and turned sharply to leave his room, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake. He supposed he could have argued with her, insisted he go to Durmstrang instead or perhaps study independently and just go sit for his exams in June, but instead he’d remained silent, and done as he was told.

So that was why Draco was now sitting alone in a train compartment with a wand he hated and a terrible feeling in his stomach.

He had successfully been able to completely ignore any thoughts about going back to Hogwarts until now, despite purchasing his books, his new wand, and packing his trunk to prepare. He was rather good at that—pushing unpleasant thoughts and feelings away with a throwaway promise of ‘ _I’ll deal with that later’._

He, of course, had not dealt with it, and now he was faced with a host of anxious questions eating away at his mind.

Would he even be allowed back? Did McGonagall mean to send the letter to him or did it just go out to everyone from his year—everyone who’d survived the war, that is? Would she refuse him at the door and insist he return to the Manor? Would any other Slytherins be returning? Somehow he doubted it.

And Merlin. The rest of the Houses.

He’d be eaten alive before even taking a seat at the Slytherin table.

 _Well_ , he thought to himself miserably, _there are worse ways to go_.

Eyeing his wand with another contemptuous look, he decided there was only one way to stop the slew of stress-inducing questions, so he fetched his outer robes from beside him, fished in the pockets to find the vial he was looking for, and quickly swallowed down some Dreamless Sleep.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “His mum’s on house arrest and Lucius is in Azkaban, he’s got to be there to take care of her.”
> 
> “It was very nice of you to speak at their trial, Harry,” Hermione said, clearly trying to cheer Harry up.
> 
> Her efforts didn’t go a long way, as Ginny’s head snapped in his direction.
> 
> “You spoke at their trial?” she demanded. “Why?”
> 
> “You didn’t tell her?” Hermione asked, looking surprised.
> 
> Harry resisted the urge to bite back a sarcastic‘yes, I told my maybe-girlfriend who lost her brother to Death Eaters that I spoke in defence of a Death Eater’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! while I'm still able, I'm going to try to post a new chapter every week :) I can't guarantee how long that'll last but I'll do my best! hope you enjoy <3

Harry felt there was something not quite right with this trip on the Hogwarts Express. If he were to voice this thought, he was sure Hermione would respond with something about it being longer than a year since they made their last trip, or perhaps something to do with how Hogwarts has changed forever in their minds after the battle. Both valid points, but not really what was sticking out to Harry.

He felt on edge, like he was waiting for something to happen. He sat with his back straight and his hand holding tightly onto his wand in his lap, as if anticipating an attack at any second.

Ginny had noticed, and managed to catch Harry’s eye. She furrowed her eyebrows and mouthed something like, “You alright?”

Harry nodded curtly, and though Ginny’s concerned expression didn’t leave her face, she nodded back and let it be. That was something Harry always liked about Ginny. She knew when to push and when to let things go. Even if it didn’t always suit Harry. Like the discussion they were supposed to have about their relationship. She was pushing about that. She was right to, Harry knew that, as he had promised her they would have that conversation and had been putting it off all summer. But he still didn’t want to have it, wasn’t ready to have it, had not planned at all what he was going to say to her, didn’t even _know_ what he wanted to say.

She’d been remarkably patient with him, having more than enough of her own other issues to work through.

Fred’s death had hit each member of the Weasley family in a different way.

George, of course, took it the hardest. Practically the whole summer he’d spent locked up in his and Fred’s room, barely coming out at all, not even for meals. He’d hardly spoken and when he had, it was in a monotone that Harry wouldn’t have even recognized as his voice.

Percy had taken it rather hard as well. Overwhelmed with guilt and the belief that he was to blame, he had buried himself in work, but instead of with Ministry bureaucracy, it was with Hogwarts repairs. He had been constantly back and forth between Hogwarts and the Burrow, always sending furious owls to the Ministry, demanding they help the process so that school could start in the fall as usual.

Ginny had tried to hide it. She’d tried to be a rock for her family, for her mother especially. She had held herself tall and pressed her lips together whenever Fred’s name was mentioned, but Harry knew her better than that. Fred and George had always looked out for Ginny, had always protected her in that older brotherly way that Ron often tried to employ, but couldn’t quite manage. They’d always made her laugh when she was upset, and they had always readily invited her in as the third prankster to their otherwise exclusive partnership. Ginny had clearly been devastated by Fred’s death, and further devastated that George would not let her in to share her grief with him.

Harry had tried to be there for her, but he himself was in no position to be someone else’s support system. Suddenly without a mission to focus on for the first time in years, he had found himself at a loss for what to do. He’d always put off really dealing with his emotions about the events that had occurred during the war—and even before that—promising himself he would deal with them when Voldemort was finally dead and dealt with.

Well, Voldemort was most certainly dead now, but Harry had still had no idea what to do with himself. He had tried taking care of Ginny, of Ron, of Molly, but he’d felt like he was intruding on the family’s grief over their fallen son and brother. He had mourned for Fred, of course, but as much as the Weasley’s had welcomed him in as one of their own, he had known the loss of Fred would be much harder for them.

The one who had it the most together—as usual—was Hermione. Her first order of business had been to return with everyone back to the Burrow. She’d insisted Molly rest and took over as Mother Hen of the house. She had cooked, cleaned, healed leftover wounds, answered nonstop owls from friends and family checking in, and had _still_ managed to track down where her parents were in Australia.

Once the initial grief had subsided, and slowly the family had started functioning again, she’d announced she was going to Australia to try and recover her parents’ memories and bring them back. Ron had insisted he go with her. Harry had offered as well, but Hermione could tell he was not up for another journey this soon and had graciously told him that the two of them could handle it without him this time.

And so Harry had slept.

And slept. And slept and slept and slept.

He had been rather surprised he was not having nightmares from the war, it’d seemed like everyone was having them these days. But, he supposed, after a lifetime of having Voldemort inside his head, there simply was no energy left in him for nightmares.

He hadn’t even been aware of how much time had passed until Hermione and Ron had returned, both looking remarkably happier and tanner than when they had left. Their search had been successful and Hermione’s parents were back home, safe and sound, though very upset by their daughter’s deception and extremely worried that she’d fought an entire war without their knowledge. Hermione had told him that McGonagall had sent letters for the three of them, inviting them back to Hogwarts to finish off their seventh year.

She had been very eager to know what he thought they should do, which he’d easily translated to mean that she wanted to go and Ron didn’t and she wanted him to be the deciding vote.

“I dunno, Hermione,” He’d said, honestly. “It wouldn’t be the same, would it?”

In the end, it didn’t really matter what he said, because Hermione would convince them to go anyway.

So here they were, sitting in a compartment on the train, along with Ginny, Luna, and Neville.

“How many people from our year do you reckon will come back?” asked Neville.

“How many survived?” Harry asked, earning him a reprimanding look from Hermione.

“I think most of Gryffindor is coming back,” Hermione responded to Neville, choosing to ignore Harry’s comment altogether.

“Sue Li from Ravenclaw isn’t,” Luna said, in that faraway voice of hers. “She and her family decided to move to Greece.”

“Mum says that Hannah Abbott’s family thought about sending her to Beauxbatons to finish her N.E.W.T’s but she insisted she finish at Hogwarts.” Ginny supplied.

“I wonder where we’ll be staying,” Ron voiced, and everyone turned to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Neville asked.

“Well, there’s not exactly room for us in the Gryffindor tower, is there? There’s seven full years, plus us. There aren’t enough dormitories.”

Hermione looked astounded. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!”

“I’m sure they’ll have someplace planned,” said Ginny, calmly.

“Oh, of course. Hogwarts has all sorts of secret places,” said Luna, a faint smile crossing over her face. “And it always makes room for those in need.”

Harry didn’t really want to think about where the eighth-year students were going to stay. He wanted to stay in Gryffindor tower. He knew it was hard-headed and selfish of him, but all he wanted was to stuff himself full of treacle tart, crawl into his old four-poster in Gryffindor tower, and just sleep for the next few days.

He didn’t say this, mainly because Hermione had already started voicing concerns about how much he was sleeping nowadays and he knew better than to fuel her fire.

“I suppose they’ll tell us when we get there,” he said instead, and the others nodded and seemed to take this as the end of this particular conversation.

Luna, however, who was never one to be especially aware of social cues, continued, “I wonder about the Slytherins.”

The others regarded her curiously.

“What about them?” asked Ginny, her voice somewhat hard.

“I wonder if any of the eighth years are coming back.” Luna said, either not noticing or simply ignoring the harshness in Ginny’s tone.

“They’d better not.” Ron said, his own tone strongly resembling Ginny’s. “That’d make them stupid as well as evil.”

“Don’t say that, Ron,” Hermione admonished. “Not all Slytherins are evil, you know. Some of them actually snuck back in and fought on our side in the battle.”

Ron snorted. “What, like three people? So what?”

“So,” Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “This whole war started because of putting people in boxes—pureblood, half-blood, Slytherin, Gryffindor. Pitting groups against each other is what got us fighting in the first place. I think if any of the Slytherins want to come back, they should be welcomed like everyone else.”

There was a moment of silence after Hermione’s statement, everyone seemingly processing it, except for Luna, who was just gazing out of the window.

“Who would even want to come back?” Harry asked. “From the Slytherins, I mean. Crabbe’s dead, Goyle’s parents are both in Azkaban, Nott’s father died in the war, Parkinson’s family fled to France, I assume Zabini’s mother has her hooks in another rich old sod, and Malfoy—” Harry paused. He didn’t really know what Malfoy was up to.

The last time he’d seen him was at his and Narcissa’s trial—one of the few times Harry had actually left the Burrow in the past several months.

While thoroughly grateful that Lucius’s trial had been held separately, he still hadn’t known why he so firmly wanted to speak at Malfoy’s trial. He just did. Part of him had briefly—stupidly—wondered if it was simply another move in their constant game of petty rivalry. But when he had entered the courtroom, and saw Malfoy, his arm wrapped protectively around his mother, his face paler than it had ever been and his jaw clenched, Harry had decided that no, it was nothing like that.

Maybe he had finally gotten tired—tired of seeing young people dying and suffering in an old man’s war. Maybe he had just wanted it to be over, wanted everything to settle into some sort of normal that he’d never truly gotten to experience. Maybe it had something to do with Malfoy’s defiant expression, that look that seemed to show he couldn’t care less if his own sentence was a Dementor’s Kiss, but that if anyone dared try and harm his mother, he would kill them with his bare hands.

He hadn’t known why he wanted to speak at Malfoy’s trial, and he didn’t like not knowing, so when he got up to speak, he simply told the truth.

He told the Wizengamot about Malfoy’s refusal to identify him at the Manor, perhaps exaggerating a bit about Malfoy “letting” him take his wand in their escape. He spoke about Malfoy’s desperation when tasked with the mission of killing Dumbledore, how he was being threatened with the death of his family if he did not comply. He talked about how Narcissa saved his life in the Forbidden Forest by risking her own and lying directly to Voldemort’s face.

At this, Malfoy’s face—which had remained stoic and emotionless the whole time—had slackened and he’d looked at his mother with wide eyes. Narcissa, however, hadn’t looked away from Harry for a second.

Harry hadn’t left until the sentences were read out. A year of house arrest for Narcissa and a year of probation for Malfoy.

Malfoy had looked utterly shocked, so thrown that he seemed to forget his ongoing effort of keeping his face blank. Narcissa had seemed to take it in stride, as always, but Harry had noticed she held her son just a little tighter.

She had come up to him afterwards, Malfoy at her side.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she’d said simply, her voice clear and level.

“Of course.” He’d replied, not knowing what else to say. He’d looked up at Malfoy, not expecting much, but Malfoy had offered a nod and Harry nodded back.

“Nah, I don’t think he will,” came Ron’s voice, bringing Harry back to the present. “His mum’s on house arrest and Lucius is in Azkaban, he’s got to be there to take care of her.”

“It was very nice of you to speak at their trial, Harry,” Hermione said, clearly trying to cheer Harry up.

Her efforts didn’t go a long way, as Ginny’s head snapped in his direction.

“You spoke at their trial?” she demanded. “Why?”

“You didn’t tell her?” Hermione asked, looking surprised.

Harry resisted the urge to bite back a sarcastic _‘yes, I told my maybe-girlfriend who lost her brother to Death Eaters that I spoke in defence of a Death Eater’_.

Instead, he just sighed. “Yes, I did. His mother saved my life.”

“I didn’t know that.” Neville remarked, looking interested.

“Funnily enough, I don’t actually enjoy talking about my many near-death experiences all that much.” Harry snapped, earning him wary looks from his friends. He sighed again. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, mate.” Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder. “So, what do you reckon the rules for Quidditch will be? Eighth years allowed or not?”

Everyone eagerly jumped into the subject change, even Hermione, who normally couldn’t give a toss about Quidditch. Ginny was still looking at Harry, though, and he knew that this wouldn’t be the last he would hear from her about this, and made a mental note of adding the conversation about the Malfoys to the list of conversations he was avoiding having with her.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small clattering noise brought Draco’s attention back to his own table and he looked down to see his absurdly long wand had fallen out of his pocket again. Cursing, he bent to fetch it and gave it a nasty look.
> 
> “Known to bring luck!” The wandmaker’s words drifted back to him, and Draco desperately wanted to go back in time just to hex him into oblivion.
> 
> Yes, it was just so incredibly lucky that he was to spend another year at Hogwarts with Harry bloody Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this chapter is short, I know, but to make up for it I will post the next one early I promise

The journey up to the Hogwarts castle was not like any of years past. It seemed as though everyone could see the Thestrals pulling their carriages now, which left many in a silent state of awe as they stared at the strange, skeletal creatures. Draco, who’d been able to see them in his sixth year, didn’t give them much notice, but that was more due to the fact that the gaunt, winged horses still made him feel rather uncomfortable. He wasn’t afraid of them—he’d seen far too many horrific things during the war to be afraid of these peaceful creatures—but there was something about them that just gnawed at his gut. Their pupil-less eyes, milky white and round, seemed to stare into one’s very soul, and Draco found himself with his own eyes firmly focused on the ground.

He hoisted himself up into a carriage containing three younger students—perhaps second or third-years. They looked at him in mild alarm, but didn’t seem to recognize him, rather appearing intimidated based on his age instead of his criminal history.

Two of them were wearing Hufflepuff scarves, the other had a Ravenclaw-blue hair band perched on her head.

Draco sighed quietly to himself. He started to wonder about Slytherins of other years, would they want to come back? He supposed many of them would have no choice, but he was sure at least some parents would choose to send their Slytherins to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang. He wouldn’t blame them. He did not predict any returning Slytherins would be met with welcoming arms, even those who didn’t bear the shame of being related to a Death Eater.

By the time everyone unloaded off the carriages and made their way into the Great Hall, it was clear as day that the Slytherin table was the emptiest of them all. There were more students than Draco was expecting, but it was nowhere near as packed as any of the other three tables.

Luckily, that meant there were plenty of vacant seats not near anybody, and Draco quickly found himself one in the very corner of the Great Hall, so as not to be as easily seen by anyone. He decided it would be prudent to sit near the door so that if he were mobbed by angry students, he would have a chance to flee.

He sat with his head ducked down as far as it would go without severely hunching over. His pale blond hair made him all the more noticeable and for once, Draco desperately wanted not to be noticed.

He was not entirely successful, he realized, as he felt a figure slide in to sit next to him. He dared a glance upwards and was both surprised and a little bit relieved to see a familiar face.

“Theo,” he breathed, as the boy next to him gave a slight smile.

“Draco. I didn’t think you’d be back this year.”

Draco allowed himself a soft chuckle. “I didn’t think I would be either.”

Theodore tilted his head and looked at him curiously. His deep brown eyes betrayed a hint of something that looked akin to pity. Under normal circumstances, Draco would’ve shut that down in a second with a sneer comment.

Right now, however, he was far too grateful to have a somewhat friendly face around, so he refrained from the urge to immediately push him away.

“I’m glad you are, though.” Theo said quietly, after a moment.

Draco looked at him, somewhat surprised. Theo didn’t meet his gaze and Draco opened his mouth to respond, but was stopped when a sudden hush fell over the Great Hall, as the large creaky doors opened and Professor Flitwick entered, leading a long line of first years to the front of the Hall. They looked absolutely tiny, even when compared to Flitwick, and were huddled much closer together than necessary. As they reached the top of the Great Hall, Flitwick stepped forward, conjured a small stool, and placed the familiar, dirty old wizard’s hat upon it.

Everyone stared and waited in silence. Draco strangely found he was holding his breath tightly.

And then the tear near the brim opened wide, and in a terribly dark and low voice, the Sorting Hat began to sing:

 

            _Back before you all were born,_

_Before your parents too,_

_Two wizards and two witches thought_

_To build a magic school._

_Good friends, they were, that shared a dream_

_To educate the youth;_

_It was my job to tell you this_

_But now I tell the truth._

_Hogwarts has seen better days_

_The castle walls still bleed_

_She wishes to be home for you_

_On her behalf, I plead_

_The founders were all different_

_And they valued varied skills_

_They all picked their favourites_

_In which those values they instilled_

_But the four of them decided_

_When they opened up their doors_

_Rivalry and competition_

_Would not turn to war_

_The castle has cleaned up your mess_

_And wants to try again_

_But don’t forget the rubble_

_That you last left her in_

_With that said, I welcome you_

_Put me on and see_

_I have never chosen wrong_

_That, I guarantee_

_You could be in Gryffindor_

_Where they are strong and brave_

_Just remember there aren’t always_

_Victims you can save_

_You could be in Ravenclaw_

_Where knowledge is your king_

_But in this time of healing_

_Logic isn’t everything_

_You could be in Hufflepuff_

_Loyal, true, and kind_

_But you will find your gentleness_

_Is often undermined_

_Or you could be in Slytherin_

_Where ambition reigns_

_But beware, for you will need_

_Your heart as well as brain_

_Wherever it is you might land_

_Whatever House is home_

_Hogwarts cannot be rebuilt_

_And I can’t be resewn._

 

There was a long quiet moment after the Sorting Hat finished its song, with everyone glancing at each other as if hoping someone else had an explanation. Draco had never heard such a song from the Sorting Hat before, even after the Dark Lord’s return. He was constantly surprised by the complexity of the magic within Hogwarts, and the Sorting Hat was no exception.

When the Great Hall eventually started to applaud, he joined in, not wanting to seem disinterested or—Merlin forbid—spiteful. His eyes swept over the Hall, observing other people’s reactions, until they stopped dead at the Gryffindor table, where none other than Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World himself, sat.

Hermione Granger was speaking rapidly to him and what Draco assumed was Ronald Weasley, based on the mess of ginger hair on the back of his head. Potter was simply nodding, though clearly didn’t seem to be processing any of what Granger was saying to him, his eyes still focused on the Sorting Hat, his eyebrows furrowing and causing little wrinkles to appear above the bridge of his nose.

Draco wondered what on earth he was doing here. Potter most certainly did not have any need to finish his N.E.W.T’s; who would be requesting any sort of formal application from Harry Potter, regardless of what job it was? Draco practically spent the last few months living like a hermit, and he had still heard that the Ministry offered Potter an Auror position without his N.E.W.T’s.

A small clattering noise brought Draco’s attention back to his own table and he looked down to see his absurdly long wand had fallen out of his pocket again. Cursing, he bent to fetch it and gave it a nasty look.

 _“Known to bring luck!”_ The wandmaker’s words drifted back to him, and Draco desperately wanted to go back in time just to hex him into oblivion.

Yes, it was just so incredibly lucky that he was to spend another year at Hogwarts with Harry bloody Potter.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t bloody believe it,” Ron muttered through gritted teeth beside him, and he sounded so angry that Harry’s attention was immediately torn away from thoughts of Lavender.
> 
> “What?” he asked.
> 
> “Malfoy’s here.”
> 
> “What?” Harry hissed and followed Ron’s eye line to find—sure enough—Draco Malfoy. He was seated in between Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, however while the two of them were engaged in conversation, he sat hunched over the table, his hands crossed and his eyes looking down.
> 
> Harry was so surprised by his presence; he didn’t know what to make of it. He knew Malfoy was a free man—technically, as he wasstill on probation—but he had never even entertained the thought that he would be returning to Hogwarts this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi I'm back with another chapter, early as promised! you get briefly introduced to some new characters here, so I hope you enjoy! <3

After the final first year—“Zima, Danielle!”—was sorted into Ravenclaw and the Sorting Hat was taken away, Professor McGonagall rose from her seat.

“Students, I know you are all tired and hungry, and I will not keep you long. First years, welcome to Hogwarts, members of your House will be happy to assist you as you acclimate to your new home. Any students returning for their eighth year, I ask you to kindly remain seated after the feast, as there are several matters we must attend to before you may be dismissed,” she paused to allow some brief murmuring, “As you all know, Hogwarts has been under repairs for several months. The castle’s magic has greatly assisted in this process; however, I beseech you to be kind to your home. It will only return the favour. Now, enjoy the feast!”

As soon as McGonagall finished, the tables all magically filled with food, and—as if on cue—Hermione immediately began chattering.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes large. “I wonder if the Sorting Hat has ever issued warnings about the Houses before? It normally says all the positive things about them, doesn’t it? ‘Remember there aren’t always victims you can save,’ I wonder what that means.”

“It’s about Harry’s saviour complex.” said Ron, through a full mouth of roast chicken. Hermione looked at him, too surprised to show any sign of disgust at his eating habits.

“I do not have a saviour complex,” Harry said, defensively.

“Yesh, ‘oo do.” Ron said, grinning as he chewed.

“He has a point,” Hermione added, in that ever-so-diplomatic tone of hers. “You do make somewhat of a habit of swooping in and saving people.”

“As opposed to leaving them to die?” Harry looked at her incredulously.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Hermione, patiently. “I just mean maybe you should listen to the Sorting Hat. Not everyone can be saved.”

Harry was ready to argue further, but Ron shot him a look that clearly meant: _leave it be_.

“Fine.” Harry grumbled. “I promise not to save anyone this year.”

“Cheers, mate!” Ron grinned at him, lifting his glass of pumpkin juice into the air.

Harry found that the rest of dinner went rather well. The comfortable energy of the Gryffindor table relaxed Harry to the point where he almost forgot his worries about the upcoming year.

Almost.

When dessert was just wrapping up, and Ron was shovelling as much strawberry cream cake into his mouth as he could before the food all disappeared, Harry felt that uneasy nervousness creep back into his stomach. He tried to tell himself it was simply that he’d eaten too much treacle tart, but he _always_ ate too much treacle tart at Hogwarts’s opening ceremony, so he knew that wasn’t the truth.

“Aw, bollocks.” Ron mumbled through his last bite of cream cake, as the golden plates before them all became magically clean and empty again.

“Ronald, that was your fifth piece of cake,” Hermione said, looking at him with her eyebrows raised.

“So?” Ron replied after a loud swallow. “We were on the run last year. Eating nuts and fish bones and Merlin knows what.”

“And you’ve been stuffing yourself on Molly’s cooking for the last three months so you know that’s no excuse.” Hermione continued, and Harry was about to tune them out when McGonagall rose from her seat again and the Great Hall fell silent once more.

“Students, I hope you have enjoyed the welcoming feast. Before I dismiss you, I have a few announcements to make. Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to remind you that all Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products are strictly forbidden within the castle walls, along with three hundred and forty-six other items. The list is available upon request. As always, the Forbidden Forest is strictly out-of-bounds to students, along with the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. And lastly, I would like to introduce you to this year’s staff. Older students, you will of course be hearing some familiar names, however do try to stay awake, as we have some new faces for you to get acquainted to.”

“I wonder who’s teaching Defence this year.” Ron commented, earning himself a dirty look and a “shh!” from Hermione. Harry shrugged at him, scanning the faculty table.

“Professor Horace Slughorn has returned as Potions master and Head of Slytherin House,” McGonagall paused as the hall politely applauded and Slughorn raised a pudgy hand in a sort of wave, “Rubeus Hagrid remains as Hogwarts gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures professor,” the applause was undoubtedly much louder for Hagrid, several Gryffindors even yelling out things like “Yeah, Hagrid!” and “Woo!”

Professor McGonagall quieted them with a simple glare over her rectangular classes. “Professor Sprout will continue as Herbology professor and Head of Hufflepuff,”—Sprout gave a friendly nod, her springy grey curls bouncing as she did so—“Professor Flitwick, of course, Charms professor and Head of Ravenclaw,”—Flitwick stood onto his seat and gave a deep bow—“Professor Trelawney will carry on as Divinations professor, however Firenze has returned to his herd in the Forbidden Forest and therefore will not be rotating classes with her,”—Trelawney looked rather pleased about this, but a few seats over, Harry could hear Parvati let out a little whine of disappointment—“Professor Sinistra continues as Astronomy professor, and Professors Vector and Babbling return for Arithmancy and the Study of Ancient Runes, respectively.”

McGonagall waited for the applause to die out and then continued, “And now I’d like to welcome our new professors. Professor Binns has decided to retire, as we believe he has realized he has been dead for quite a few decades now,”—the first years, Harry noticed, looked rather disturbed by how nonchalantly McGonagall spoke—“In his place, as the instructor for History of Magic, I’d like you all to welcome Professor Fiona Ramirez, who has come highly recommended to us from Ilvermorny.”

A woman on the far right end of the table stood up, and Harry wondered how he didn’t notice her before. She had wild chestnut hair, that seemed to explode around her in bouncy curls. She had a curvy figure and her robes were a dark blue colour, instead of the standard Hogwarts black.

“She looks rather young, doesn’t she?” Hermione said, sounding somewhere between worried and judgmental.

“Lupin was young, too.” Harry said, without thinking, and Hermione gave him a wide-eyed look, like a small bird being cornered by a hawk. He sighed. He hadn’t meant anything by it, but recently it seemed like his friends were constantly on guard around him, like everything he said was meant as an attack on them. He wanted to reassure her that he hadn’t meant it in a bad way, but the treacle tart was starting to settle in his stomach, making him feel heavy and sleepy, and he simply didn’t have the energy for it.

Instead, he focused back on Professor Fiona Ramirez, who was seated again but still looking at the students with a merry grin on her face. Harry decided he liked her.

“Also from our friends across the pond, Professor Waya Boxturtle joins us as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”

Harry craned his neck to get a better look at the man who stood. He had a serious face, but didn’t look particularly stern, his features worn but kind against his dark complexion. His hair was long, thick, and black, held together neatly in a low-hanging ponytail. Interestingly, he also wasn’t wearing traditional black Hogwarts robes, but instead what looked to Harry to be a simple long-sleeved black tunic, with black pants underneath.

“Odd name, wouldn’t you say?” Ron commented, as Professor Waya Boxturtle sat down again.

“I think he’s Native American.” Hermione said, still looking at the new professor. “I’m not quite sure which tribe though.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that two of our new professors had to be imported from another country?” said Ron.

“Oh, Ron, don’t say it like that. I’m sure they’re both extremely qualified.” responded Hermione with a wave of her hand.

“He doesn’t look like a bloke you’d wanna mess with,” Harry added, thoughtfully. “Maybe he’ll last longer than a year.”

“You reckon?” Ron grinned.

“Shh!” Hermione suddenly hushed them. “Oh, look, now we’ve missed an introduction.”

Harry looked up, and unsurprisingly, Hermione was right. A woman with neat golden hair tied up in a tight bun was just taking her seat.

“And finally, taking my place as both Transfiguration professor and Head of Gryffindor House, Professor Lachlan Ashworth.”

The first thing Harry noticed about their new Head of House was that he was quite handsome. He was tall, with firm posture and broad shoulders, and his face was stoic, his jawline sharp and his nose straight. His dark brown hair was elegantly coiffed yet simultaneously looked like he hadn’t done a thing to style it. Harry guessed he was in his mid-forties at the most. Something about him reminded Harry of Muggle soldiers standing to attention—strong, unwavering.

Harry clearly hadn’t been the only one to notice their new Head’s good looks, as girls were whispering about him up and down the table. However, with a steady clearing of her throat, McGonagall had command over the Hall once again.

“Thank you all for your attention. Your schedules will be available to you in your House’s common rooms first thing in the morning. Prefects, please guide students to your respective Houses. Eighth year students, please remain seated. Goodnight!”

There was a great scraping of wooden benches against the stone floor as almost all the students got to their feet and headed towards the large double doors of the Great Hall.

It took several minutes for everyone to leave, and when the doors banged shut again, what looked like less than thirty people remained, scattered around the enormous room at their respective House tables.

The staff had all dispersed as well, all except McGonagall and the Heads of House—Slughorn, Sprout, Flitwick, and the new Gryffindor head, Lachlan Ashworth.

“Do come sit up front, please,” McGonagall said, her voice sounding far more casual. She gestured to the side of the Ravenclaw table closest to the staff table, and she herself got up and walked over to stand in front of it. Her fellow professors followed suit and lined up beside her.

The eighth-year students did as they were told, rising from their spots and walked over to the front of the Ravenclaw table. Harry, once seated, was glad to see some familiar faces. Susan Bones, whose long red hair had been cut and now stopped just short of her shoulders, gave him a warm smile when they made eye contact. Padma Patil had scurried over to sit down beside her sister. But on the other side of Parvati, Lavender Brown was noticeably missing.

He felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over him. He remembered, in the Battle, Lavender had been attacked by Greyback. He remembered Trelawney and Parvati leaning over her in the Great Hall.

 _It was right over there,_ he thought to himself, feeling his insides go cold. He hadn’t been sure that she had died. He had never even _asked._

“I don’t bloody believe it,” Ron muttered through gritted teeth beside him, and he sounded so angry that Harry’s attention was immediately torn away from thoughts of Lavender.

“What?” he asked.

“Malfoy’s here.”

“ _What?_ ” Harry hissed and followed Ron’s eye line to find—sure enough—Draco Malfoy. He was seated in between Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, however while the two of them were engaged in conversation, he sat hunched over the table, his hands crossed and his eyes looking down.

Harry was so surprised by his presence; he didn’t know what to make of it. He knew Malfoy was a free man—technically, as he _was_ still on probation—but he had never even entertained the thought that he would be returning to Hogwarts this year.

Before Harry and Ron could begin discussing what could’ve possibly possessed Malfoy to think it was a good idea to come back to school, McGonagall had begun speaking again.

“I am delighted to see so many of you have chosen to return,” she said, with a genuine smile on her face. Everyone fell silent and turned to look at her. “I do not intend to keep you long, however there are some imperative changes we must go over.”

Hermione had that concerned look on her face again.

“As some of you may have realized, your House dormitories are only designed to hold seven years of students, and so we have had to organize alternative arrangements for you. The Founder’s Tower has been transformed to become a living space for you. There you will find your dormitories as well as your new common room.”

Several hands shot into the air. Her eyebrows raised, McGonagall called out Ernie Macmillan.

“Yes, professor, does that mean we will _all_ be sharing? All Houses?” He phrased it rather innocently, but everyone was well aware of what he was really asking. _Would they have to share with the Slytherins?_

McGonagall sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Your dormitories are split by House, for the most part. However, some adjustments were made in order to fit into the space we had available. As for the common room, yes, Mr. Macmillan, you will all be sharing.”

More hands in the air.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” McGonagall looked at Hermione, expectantly.

“Will we no longer be able to access our old common rooms?”

Harry’s eyes widened. He couldn’t imagine life in Hogwarts without the cushiony armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the fire pleasant and comforting.

“That is correct.”

This was greeted by a substantial reaction—the Slytherins began whispering amongst themselves, Seamus seemed utterly outraged, Ernie Macmillan’s normally pink face went white as a sheet, and even the Ravenclaws looked rather mutinous.

“As our oldest students,” McGonagall started in a raised voice, instantly quashing any other noise. “I expect you all to behave accordingly. The younger students will be looking to you as an example and I am certain you will not let us down.” Her eyes narrowed at them. “The entrance to your common room in the Founder’s Tower is behind a wall-mounted sixteenth century Persian rug, next to the portrait of Lady Kellestra. The current password is _Florence’s Law._ ”

There were still several hands raised in the air, but McGonagall paid them no mind and continued.

“Now, we must also discuss your extra-curricular classes. Many of your core and elective classes will be taken along with the seventh years, however Hogwarts is offering a unique opportunity for you as well. Under normal circumstances, at this age you would be typically be either undertaking an apprenticeship or commencing training for your chosen career. Hogwarts will be welcoming experts in several fields to mentor you in whatever your field of choosing may be. On the schedules you receive tomorrow, you will find you each have an individual appointment with your Head of House next week to consider what that field may be so that we may find you an appropriate mentor. Any questions?”

Many hands.

McGonagall glared. “About the extra-curricular classes?”

Everyone’s hand fell except for Hermione’s.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“What if there isn’t an expert in our chosen field?”

McGonagall allowed herself a small smile. “Miss Granger, if you propose a field of study that has not yet been heard of or studied in any capacity, I vow I will do my utmost to find you as close to an expert as I can possibly find.”

Hermione looked quite pleased.

“I also regret to have to inform you that eighth-year students will not be permitted to play Quidditch on their House teams,” McGonagall seemed to have expected the responding outrage, as Ron, Harry, Dean, Kevin Entwhistle and Alice Runcorn from Hufflepuff, and Anthony Goldstein and Oliver Rivers from Ravenclaw immediately made noises of protest.

“I know,” McGonagall began, her voice once again echoing across the hall and silencing all of them. “that you are disappointed, however I strongly believe that with your additional classes and workload, you would be hard-pressed to find the time for the time demands Quidditch requires. You are, of course, welcome to use the field for flying practice when it is not being used for Quidditch practice.”

She gave them all a look as if daring them to protest further.

“Furthermore, as you are all of age, you are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on all weekends, not only on supervised trips. Know that this is a _privilege_ and any breaches of conduct will be met with a swift ban. Lastly, I would advise you to remember what we fought for—a peaceful and more accepting magical community. I trust you will treat each other kindly and with respect, and that you will extend that courtesy to our new professors, especially those joining us from Ilvermorny. They left prominent positions in order to assist us in our effort of returning Hogwarts to its full potential. I am sure you will make them feel welcomed and at home here.”

The tone of her voice made it clear that it was not a suggestion.

“If there is every anything you need, do not hesitate to approach me or your Head of House. It is our wish that all students feel comfortable in Hogwarts once again. Now, off to bed with you.”


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Could be worse,” he said, and allowed himself a grin as he looked at the other boys. “I could be rooming with the Hufflepuffs.”
> 
> Blaise and Theo looked at him for a second—and then both fell into their own grins.
> 
> “Prat.” Blaise teased and gave Draco a playful shove.
> 
> “Go on then. I’ll see you at breakfast. If the Hufflepuffs haven’t, I don’t know, cuddled you to death or whatever Hufflepuffs do.” Draco said, already turning to walk into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter five is heeeeere! let me know what you think so far <3

Draco decided he was going to cast all the blame on his bloody wand. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could think the blasted thing was a _good-luck charm,_ seeing as since the moment he first acquired it, he had been receiving bad news at every turn.

Here he was, traipsing after Hufflepuffs to reach their new shared common room. Blaise and Theodore both shot him and each other worried looks, but they all knew better than to speak. The less attention they could draw to themselves, the better.

“ _Florence’s Law,_ ” said someone up front. Granger, Draco thought it sounded like. He stretched his neck to get a better look, and saw as the bricks behind the ornamental rug began to unfold, revealing a hole through which one could crawl through. The small crowd slowly started shuffling in, and Draco and his fellow Slytherin men were the last to enter, watching the bricks reassemble themselves behind them.

The Eighth Year common room was nothing like the Slytherin dungeons. It was a large, circular room, with two sets of curved staircases at the back. Near the staircase on the right were large arched windows, with cushioned window-seats and a shelf full of books. By the staircase on the left was a large bulletin board, already half-full with notes and announcements.

A grey carpet covered every inch of the floor, and the various armchairs and sofas that occupied the room were all either black or white. White lamps glittered with the appearance of stars bouncing off the walls. There were desks tucked away under the staircases and bowls of fruit on the several end tables by the couches. Everything was very monochromatic, which made the few spots of colour all the more noticeable.

On a circular table placed in the centre of the large round room was a glass vase. Inside were four flowers: a warm yellow marigold, a bright red poppy, a deep blue larkspur, and a pale green rose.

 _Wow. Subtle,_ Draco thought.

And that was _before_ he saw the wall.

On the left wall hung four enormous tapestries, depicting each one of the Houses. For Hufflepuff, a badger was embroidered on the soft yellow fabric and the words, _THE PURSUIT OF JUSTICE_ , written underneath it in black. The Ravenclaw eagle had its wings outstretched against the navy blue fabric, with bronze writing underneath it proclaiming, _THE HUNT FOR KNOWLEDGE._ On the rich scarlet of the Gryffindor tapestry was a mighty lion, its mane large and orange and its mouth open in a growl, revealing sharp teeth. Golden writing spelled out, _THE DESIRE FOR ADVENTURE._ Draco’s eyes came to rest lastly on the Slytherin tapestry, where a silver snake sat coiled up against the emerald green background. Below it, in sparkling silver, sat the words, _THE QUEST FOR GREATNESS._

Draco blinked up at it. He had expected to find it quite tasteless, but oddly enough, it comforted him, made him feel somewhat better. Here he was, feeling like enough of an outsider, and he couldn’t even have the simple pleasure of hiding out in the Slytherin dormitory, lounging on the leather couches, and watching fish and merpeople swim by above him. And yet, even in this unfamiliar nook of Hogwarts, where the black and white of the room seemed off and strange, the tapestry gave him a feeling of…safety.

“Oi, Malfoy!”

Well, that was nice while it lasted.

Draco turned his head, his body tense, ready to be jinxed at any moment. He found himself face-to-face with Seamus Finnigan, who looked apoplectic. Draco couldn’t really blame him; he had heard from Blaise how bad Finnigan had gotten it from the Carrows last year. Even now, he had several small white scars overlapping each other on the side of his left eye, and his nose looked rather crooked, as though it had been broken more than once.

“What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing back ‘ere?” He growled. Draco would’ve been scared—if it were two years ago. He was a right coward back then.

Truthfully, he didn’t think himself any braver now, but he’d seen so many terrible things, witnessed so many tragedies, that he figured he could survive being punched a few times by an angry Gryffindor. It was bound to happen at some point; why not now?

Draco was about to respond, something sarcastic and condescending as usual, but he’s interrupted by a voice he’d never heard sound so strong.

“Seamus.”

Finnigan reluctantly tore his eyes away from Draco’s face to look at Granger, whose jaw was set and whose eyes seemed to shine with ire. Draco found himself feeling more fearful of her than Finnigan, even though her gaze was not directed at him.

“Leave it. You heard McGonagall,” she said, firmly.

“But he—” Seamus began, aggressively, before he was cut off by another voice.

“No.”

This time, the speaker was Potter. He didn’t look angry like Finnigan or serious like Granger. He just looked tired. His normally bright green eyes lacked their usual spark and he seemed to be slouching, his posture nowhere near as commanding as it normally was.

“The war’s over. We’re done fighting. Enough.” he said, and Finnigan appeared to deflate a little.

“Right.” he said, still shooting Draco a dirty look.

“Let’s just all go to bed, everyone.” said Granger, already back to her typical bossy tone of voice, though with a hint of forced cheerfulness clear.

“Girls’ are on the right,” the Gryffindor Patil girl said, with an air of finality, pointing to the railing of the right-hand staircase, which had a metal **L** —for Ladies, Draco assumed—embedded in it.

Without so much as another word, the eighth-year students all obediently shuffled towards their respective staircases. Draco stayed rooted to the spot, not wanting anyone to walk behind him. Hero Potter may have saved him from getting hexed this time but Draco was taking no chances. Once everyone was already up the stairs, Draco allowed himself to follow.

When he reached the dormitories, Blaise and Theo stood out in the hallway, waiting for him.

“What?” he asked, not in the mood to have a long discussion about what had just occurred in their new common room.

“We’re not placed together.” Blaise said, curtly. Draco liked that about Blaise, there was no dawdling about. Sure, he could weave a tangled web when he wanted to, spin a story however he liked, antagonize people with long monologues that just barely danced around the topic of conversation, but with his friends, he was blunt and straight to the point.

“What?” he asked again, this time with his voice sharp and betraying far more fear than Draco would have liked. “I thought we were being grouped according to House.”

“‘ _For the most part,’_ ” Theo said, in a poor imitation of Minerva McGonagall. “Look,”

He gestured to the doors, which had the names of its inhabitants etched in golden plaques that hung neatly at eye-level.

The door on the right read:

_Room 1_

_Seamus Finnigan_

_Neville Longbottom_

_Harry Potter_

_Dean Thomas_

_Ronald Weasley_

Well, that made sense, all the Gryffindor boys had returned so naturally their arrangement would remain the same. Draco turned to look at the door on the left:

_Room 2_

_Kevin Entwhistle_

_Justin Finch-Fletchley_

_Ernie Macmillan_

_Theodore Nott_

_Blaise Zabini_

Draco felt something inside him go cold. So it wasn’t that they were all separated. It was just him, just Draco, who would be isolated from his House.

“I assume that’s me then,” he said in a monotone, pointing to the last remaining door at the end of the short hall.

Theo nodded. “With the Ravenclaws.”

Draco sighed. He wasn’t pleased with this. Not at all.

But earlier, he’d thought he might be the only Slytherin to be back at all, and it turned out he had Theo and Blaise and he thought that _maybe_ he had seen Daphne on the way up to the Founder’s Tower, so perhaps it wouldn’t be as horrible as he’d been imagining.

“Could be worse,” he said, and allowed himself a grin as he looked at the other boys. “I could be rooming with the Hufflepuffs.”

Blaise and Theo looked at him for a second—and then both fell into their own grins.

“Prat.” Blaise teased and gave Draco a playful shove.

“Go on then. I’ll see you at breakfast. If the Hufflepuffs haven’t, I don’t know, cuddled you to death or whatever Hufflepuffs do.” Draco said, already turning to walk into his room. He waited until he heard Blaise and Theo enter their dormitory and close the door behind him before he gave the plaque on his door a proper look.

_Room 3_

_Terrence Boot_

_Michael Corner_

_Anthony Goldstein_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Oliver Rivers_

Silently telling himself that it was better than rooming with Finnigan and the Weasel, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

Four faces looked up to stare at Draco. He stood still, unsure what the right move was. Did he greet them? Did he refuse to make eye contact? Did he engage in this bizarre stare down they seemed to be having with him? He could see his trunk sitting at the corner of the bed farthest from the door.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he decided, feeling stupid just standing there in the doorway. Closing the door behind him, he took three quick strides to the end of the room and knelt to open his trunk. Once he’d unlocked it and opened it, he snuck a glance at the other boys and was glad to find none of them were looking at him anymore.

Well, it wasn’t comfortable, but he sincerely hoped it didn’t have to be painful.

Nevertheless, he made sure to lock his trunk and put up wards once his bed curtains were drawn. One could never be too careful.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr Zabini and Mr Nott, partner with one another,”—Harry looked to the back, where Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Draco Malfoy were all seated at one table. Zabini and Nott shot Malfoy what looked to be an apologetic look, but Malfoy barely even shrugged.
> 
> “Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood, I’m sure you will work well with each other,” Slughorn continued, smiling at Ginny and Luna. “Miss Granger and Miss Roper, you as well,”—a nod from him to Hermione and Sophie—“Mr Finnigan and Mr Weasley together, and that leaves us with…”—Harry felt a sense of dread filling him, like he had been jolted from a great height and his stomach was sinking like a stone. “Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy! Excellent. Please seat yourself with your partners if you aren’t already so we can begin with today’s potion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter six, a little short but hope you like it nonetheless!

“Double Potions every Monday.” Harry said, looking at his schedule as he plunked himself down next to Ron. “Typical.”

Ron, who was filling his plate with pancakes and hadn’t even glanced at his schedule, suddenly stopped, a pancake dangling off his fork in mid-air.

“Tell me you’re joking,” he groaned, using his free hand to fish his own schedule out of his pocket. Shaking it rather aggressively in order to unfold it, he squinted at it and then groaned even louder.

“I assume that means you’ve got it with me.” Harry said, helping himself to some poached eggs.

“Misery loves company, it seems.” Ron nodded glumly, not looking nearly as excited about his pancakes as he had a mere thirty seconds ago.

Their little pity party was interrupted when Hermione plopped herself down across the table from them.

“Have you two checked your schedules yet?” she asked, not pausing for a breath, let alone to let them answer. “When are your meetings with the new head of House? Do you know what you’re going to ask him? You still want to be Aurors, right? I _knew_ seventh year was a year of preparation, but I had no idea we would be given apprenticeships! I haven’t prepared for this at all. I have classes until past six, but I think I’m going to go to the library afterwards to do some more research. I do wish Professor McGonagall had at least _mentioned_ this in her letter, how are we supposed to figure out what careers we want in the matter of weeks?”

Harry and Ron stared at her—as usual, in awe of how she seemed capable of such fast speech without breath.

“Calm down, ‘Mione.” Ron said, only half of a pancake on his fork now. “You’ll be great at whatever you choose.”

Harry chose to focus on something else.

“You have classes till after six?” He asked, incredulously.

Hermione nodded, busying herself with buttering a piece of toast at an inhuman speed. “I was already planning on taking N.E.W.T.’s in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, but I want to have all my bases covered as well, so I’m taking Care of Magical Creatures again and I _thought_ about adding Divination back—” Ron sputtered a, “but—” which Harry knew was going to become something like: _but you hate Divination,_ but Hermione didn’t let him get another word in, savagely stabbing her toast with a jam-coated knife now, “but I _didn’t._ Either way, I’m in your Transfigurations class, as well as double Potions, and then I have Arithmancy, double Charms, and Care of Magical Creatures.”

She looked off to the side as if trying to remember something.

“Oh!” she almost jumped in her seat a second later, “I’d almost forgotten, I have Astronomy as well, at midnight.”

She gave a small smile, looking pleased with herself, and put down the knife.

“Got to run, I wanted to see if I could have a word with Professor Ashworth before class. See you then!” she put the toast in her mouth, holding it with her teeth, grabbed her book-bag, and waved at them as she hurried away.

Ron gaped after her.

“She’s gonna kill herself taking all those classes,” he said, incredulously. “You’d think she’d have learned her lesson after third year and the whole mess about the time-turner, but no.”

Harry snorted.

“You know Hermione,” he said with a shrug, “She’ll drown herself in schoolwork if given the opportunity.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, looking off into space. “So Auror training. Wonder what it’ll be like. I mean, it’s not the official Auror training, but still. Maybe it’ll give us a leg-up when we actually do apply.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, not really meaning it. He didn’t know how he felt about starting Auror training right away. The war had _just_ ended, and now he was meant to instantly return to defensive spellwork? The very thought made his stomach queasy.

“Should we head to Transfiguration then? Don’t want to be late for the new professor.” Ron shovelled the last few bites of pancake into his mouth and choked it all down with a few gulps of pumpkin juice.

“Right,” said Harry, and the two of them got up from their seats at the Gryffindor table and headed towards the doors of the Great Hall. Before they walked through the enormous double-doors, Harry glanced towards the Slytherin table.

He was hunched down again, and had the hood of his robes drawn over his head, but it was the unmistakable figure of Draco Malfoy.

Harry didn’t know why he felt such a level of discomfort at the idea of Malfoy being back—after all, he was something Harry regularly associated with Hogwarts, albeit not a favourite. Perhaps it was Malfoy’s own discomfort, how he sat slouched over—so different from his typical perfect posture—how he seemed to avoid looking anyone in the eyes, how desperately he seemed to want to blend into his surroundings. He was behaving nothing like the loud, annoying, attention-seeking Malfoy that Harry knew, and it was rather disturbing to see.

A voice in Harry’s head—that sounded eerily like Ginny—told him it wasn’t his job to worry about Malfoy. Given his position during the war, it was no wonder he was trying his hardest to remain unnoticed.

Casting his eyes away from the Slytherins, Harry attempted to banish any thoughts of Draco Malfoy from his mind.

 

 

Professor Lachlan Ashworth was standing at the front of the class when Harry and Ron walked in. He had his hands behind his back, which somehow made him look taller and his shoulders broader. Hermione was already seated by the front, one of the Gryffindor girls—Harry thought her name was something with an S—next to her.  

Harry and Ron joined their table, Harry nodding a hello to the Gryffindor girl. She smiled back.

Slowly the classroom began to fill up, with more people than Harry would’ve expected.

“Lots of people for an N.E.W.T level class, don’t you think?” Ron said, voicing Harry’s thoughts aloud.

“Transfiguration is a popular N.E.W.T subject, though,” provided Hermione.

“There’s also both seventh and eighth years in the class this year.” The Gryffindor girl said. Ron looked at her, as though seeing her for the first time.

“Hullo,” he said. “Do I know you? I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.”

Hermione gave him a withering look, one that Harry knew meant she wanted to tell him off for his bad manners but knew it would do no good.

The Gryffindor girl didn’t seem to mind though; she just grinned widely, showing off teeth so dazzlingly white they’d put Gilderoy Lockhart to shame.

“I’m Sophie Roper,” she said. “We’ve been in the same House for eight years now.”

“Oh,” said Ron, and he had the decency to go a little red in the ears. “Sorry.”

Sophie laughed—a warm, pleasant sound that made Harry decide he quite liked her. “It’s alright, I know you three have been busy fighting dark wizards since we were eleven; I can imagine there’s not much time to remember miscellaneous classmates.”

Ron grinned as well and even Hermione looked rather pleased.

Various chatter filled the classroom, until Professor Ashworth cleared his throat firmly. The entire class fell silent and Harry was rather impressed.

“Welcome, students, to Transfiguration. In case you don’t remember from the opening feast, I am your new instructor, Professor Ashworth. I know you are all used to Professor McGonagall and transitioning to a new professor in your final year can be difficult, but I guarantee as long as you work hard and complete your assignments, you will succeed in this class.” Unhooking his hands from behind his back, he moved in front of his own teacher’s desk and sat down on top of it, looking far more casual than he had ten seconds ago. “Now, I normally don’t like wasting precious class time, but I understand you may be somewhat curious as to who I am and why I’m here, so I’ll allow three minutes for any questions.” A little smile seemed to play at his lips. “I may not answer if your questions get too _personal._ ”

Hermione’s hand, as usual, was one of the first in the air.

Professor Ashworth’s eyes fell upon Hannah Abbott. “Yes, Miss…?”

“Abbott,” Hannah supplied. “Have you always been a professor?”

Ashworth shook his head. “No, I haven’t. When I finished school, I was recruited by the Arrows and played with them for a few years till I took a Bludger to the knee and had to retire.”

“Wait, the Appleby Arrows?” Seamus suddenly interrupted.

Professor Ashworth didn’t seem bothered by the disruption, and just smirked slightly. “The very same.”

Seamus looked confused for a moment and then his face cleared like all of his questions had been answered.

“You’re…you’re Lucky Ashworth! _The_ Lucky Ashworth!” He gasped, his voice almost disbelieving.

Professor Ashworth raised his eyebrows.

“I did go by Lucky during my Quidditch days, however Professor McGonagall has rather strongly insisted I instruct you to address me as Professor Ashworth.”

Several murmurs filled up the room and Ron looked rather impressed. Harry could tell the new professor’s coolness factor had gone up by several degrees.

Hermione—never one to be impressed by Quidditch—looked rather sceptical, however, her lips pursed and her hand still raised.

“Yes, Miss Granger.” Professor Ashworth addressed her. Harry wasn’t surprised that he knew her name—the three of them had been featured in _The Daily Prophet_ countless times over the summer. It seemed everyone and their mother knew about ‘The Golden Trio’.

“Have you taught before Hogwarts?” she asked. Ashworth chuckled a little.

“Yes, I have. Not to worry, this isn’t my first teaching experience. My Quidditch days were a long time ago. I loved my time as a student at Hogwarts and right after the end of my sporting career, I decided I wanted to train to become a teacher. I’ve been a professor for almost twenty years now.”

Hermione looked a little happier about this, but raised her hand in the air again.

Ashworth had a little smile on his face now. “Miss Granger?”

“Where have you taught before?” she asked. Harry thought it sounded almost like an interrogation, but Ashworth seemed quite relaxed.

“Good question,” he nodded at her. “I first started teaching at small schools in northern England, however I was used to traveling from my Quidditch days and I wanted to try my hand at teaching abroad. So I applied for a position at Beauxbatons and worked there for about seven years, before moving to Uagadou. I greatly enjoyed that job and spent the next eleven years there. And the rest, as they say, is history, and here I am today.”

A seventh-year Hufflepuff boy was next to be called.

“Yes, in the back, Mr….?”

“Laurence Pickering, sir,” piped up the boy, who had shaggy light brown hair that reminded Harry somewhat of his own in that it seemed to fall all over the place. “Sorry, sir, but what is Uagadou?”

Hermione straightened in her seat, which Harry knew meant she had the answer, as usual.

“No need to apologize, Mr. Pickering. When I went to Hogwarts, I was mostly unaware of the other wizarding schools in the world. Uagadou is actually the largest wizarding school of all, and the oldest, too. It’s located in western Uganda. It’s a beautiful school, with a truly gifted student body, and I am very grateful for my time there.”

Professor Ashworth only answered two more questions—“why did you leave Beauxbatons?” and “why did you choose to come to Hogwarts?”—before he jumped off the desk and clapped his hands together.

“I hope that gave you a better idea of who your new professor is. That being said, I think it’s time we move on to the actual class content.”

Professor Lachlan Ashworth—as cool as his Quidditch background might have been—turned out to be a rather commanding instructor. He had them start on Self-Transfiguration into animals, something he said was heavily emphasized in Uagadou. His pace was quick and Harry found himself struggling to keep up with the rapid instructions. Ashworth had them use their textbooks as a reference, but seemed to prefer hands-on learning, insisting that Transfiguration magic had to be “felt”. Usually, this sort of teaching frustrated Hermione, as she was far more comfortable learning from books, however she seemed to be doing quite well. Ashworth even praised her at the end of class, telling the class to look closely at how her hair had straightened out and become coarser, much closer to a lion’s mane than human hair. He helped her Transfigure it back and instructed them all to write twelve inches on the possible consequences of improperly cast Self-Transfiguration.

As they left the Transfiguration classroom, Hermione seemed quite satisfied.

“Wasn’t that _fascinating_?” she asked, her eyes shining brightly. “Becoming an Animagus is such a difficult process and you don’t get to choose the form you’ll take, but Self-Transfiguration is completely up to you! I wonder why it’s not taught more often; I suppose the downside is the spell only lasts a certain amount of time, but as long as you can reapply it, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m so curious to see what else is more commonly taught in the other wizarding schools.”

“He could’ve been a little more patient,” Ron grumbled. “We’re not all gonna get the hang of it right away.”

“High expectations aren’t a _bad_ thing, Ron,” insisted Hermione.

“Whatever,” Ron said, still sounding rather put off. “I think he’s just bitter he had to quit playing Quidditch.”

Harry just shrugged, privately thinking that Ron’s disdain for Ashworth had more to do with how much Hermione seemed to like him than his rigorous instructing technique. He himself wasn’t sure how he felt about Ashworth yet. He supposed he liked him; he was quite interesting after all and he seemed to be a good teacher, despite how quick he seemed to move through the course content.

Hermione continued talking about what Ashworth could possibly introduce to them throughout their year as they made their way to the dungeons. By the time they entered the Potions classroom, Ron looked moderately displeased.

“Sophie! You’re in this class, too!” Hermione said, seeing the brunette Gryffindor girl already seated by the wall. Sophie turned and smiled widely when she saw them. Hermione walked over to sit at her table with her, and Ron and Harry followed, taking the table behind them.

Harry wasn’t sure when Hermione had become friends with Sophie—she had never been particularly close with the Gryffindor girls before—but he was glad for her, remembering how happy she was whenever they were at the Burrow and she got to spend time with Ginny.

Just as Ginny entered Harry’s mind, the energetic redhead bounded into the classroom, followed by Luna and Seamus.

“Ginny!” Ron looked rather surprised. “What are you doing here?”

She grinned at them. “What does it look like? You have classes with seventh years, you know.”

Ginny bounded over to sit at the table next to Harry and Ron with Luna, while Seamus joined the boys’ table.

“I didn’t know you were taking N.E.W.T Potions.” Harry said, to both Ginny and Luna.

“I need four N.E.W.Ts even if I want to play Quidditch and I’m good at Potions, so,” shrugged Ginny.

“Potions is very important,” Luna nodded, seriously.

“D’you reckon all our classes will be as big as Transfiguration?” Ron asked Harry, who merely shrugged. Personally, he wouldn’t mind if they were. He knew Slughorn would be expecting Harry to perform exceptionally in Potions, and the more crowded the class, the easier it would be for Harry to hide in the back.

Seamus piped up, “N.E.W.T Potions is bloody hard to get into. McGonagall’s making me do it again after last year,”

“What was it like last year?” Hermione asked, turning around in her chair to look at Seamus, interestedly.

Seamus shrugged, “Slughorn tried his best to keep it normal, but everything was mad and hopeless so he just sort of let us keep making Calming Draughts and simple Healing Potions to slip to the younger students. Didn’t really learn much.”

None of them really knew how to respond to that, but luckily they were spared the need to when Slughorn entered the room, hurrying to the front.

“Apologies for my tardiness, students,” he huffed, clearly out of breath. “Professor Hagrid was showing me his new batch of flying lizard eggs and I simply lost track of time.”

Harry looked around, scanning the classroom. It wasn’t nearly as occupied as Transfiguration, but there was a decent amount of people, more than there had been in his sixth year Potions class.

“Right!” said Slughorn, making himself comfortable in the chair behind his professor’s desk. “Welcome to N.E.W.T level Potions! First thing’s first, we’re going to be concocting some complex and often dangerous potions this year, so I trust everyone will pay the utmost attention to my instructions.” There was a little twinkle in his eye and he looked over at Harry, who tried his best not to make eye contact. “Secondly, several of our potions this year are highly reactive and dependent upon those mixing them, so I’ve decided the safest way to handle this is to assign you all partners you will stick with for the year. Several of the traditional Old Magic love potions we will be crafting are known to have messy reactions when men and women work on them together, so you will be partnered with someone of your gender.” He cast his eye around the room as though he was counting and nodded to himself, seeming pleased. “It should all work out perfectly, in fact. Mr Smith and Mr Lynch, you two can be partners,”—Harry craned his neck to see Zacharias Smith and another seventh year Hufflepuff boy sitting in the front look rather pleased—“Miss Wilkins, Miss Bellmore, the two of you will work together”—Nadine Bellmore, a Gryffindor girl Harry only knew as being one of Romilda Vane’s friends, looked far less happy about this arrangement, looking with disdain over at Ella Wilkins, a Slytherin girl very small in stature—“Mr Zabini and Mr Nott, partner with one another,”—Harry looked to the back, where Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Draco Malfoy were all seated at one table. Zabini and Nott shot Malfoy what looked to be an apologetic look, but Malfoy barely even shrugged.

“Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood, I’m sure you will work well with each other,” Slughorn continued, smiling at Ginny and Luna. “Miss Granger and Miss Roper, you as well,”—a nod from him to Hermione and Sophie—“Mr Finnigan and Mr Weasley together, and that leaves us with…”—Harry felt a sense of dread filling him, like he had been jolted from a great height and his stomach was sinking like a stone. “Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy! Excellent. Please seat yourself with your partners if you aren’t already so we can begin with today’s potion."

Harry didn’t fail to notice that every set of partners was already seated together besides him and Malfoy, and Nadine Bellmore and Ella Wilkins.

“Well,” he said, in a resigned sort of voice, to Ron. “See you after class, I suppose.”

Ron gave him a sympathetic look. “Sorry, mate.”

Harry just sort of shrugged and got up from his seat, looking towards the back where the Slytherins were. Ella Wilkins, who had been sitting at a table by herself, jumped slightly as Nadine Bellmore approached her and slammed herself into the seat next to her in a huff.

Malfoy had stood up from his shared table with Zabini and Nott and moved over to the next table over but hadn’t taken a seat yet.

“Hullo, Malfoy.” Harry said, tentatively approaching him.

“This table alright?” Malfoy asked, not looking at Harry. This struck Harry as quite odd; since when did Malfoy need Harry’s approval for anything?

“Sure,” Harry agreed and moved to take one of the seats. Malfoy sat down next to him, though he seemed to be putting most of his weight on the side away from Harry.

“We’ll be starting off with something a little simpler, get you back into the rhythm of things,” Slughorn announced, rising from his chair with what seemed like considerable effort and pointing his wand at the chalkboard, “However, don’t get lazy! This potion will require constant supervision in order to achieve the desired result.”

Slughorn flicked his wand and words began to appear on the chalkboard.

“Today we will be brewing _Elixir Eloquentiam,_ informally known as Silver Tongue Tonic. A favourite of politicians and speech-makers, this potion makes its drinker far more persuasive and articulate. The instructions are on page eighty-seven of your textbooks. Off you go!”

There was a moderate amount of rustling as everyone bent to withdraw their textbooks from their backpacks. Harry did so himself, however didn’t fail to notice that Malfoy already had his textbook on the desk, flipped to the right page.

“Er…I’ll get the ingredients.” Harry said, standing up from his seat and starting to search for the right page in his book. Malfoy just gave a sort of non-committal nod.

Harry strolled over to the cabinet, where several other students were also gathering their ingredients. Hermione, who had her arms full and was about to walk off, gave Harry a somewhat concerned look.

“Are you alright?” she murmured, slightly under her breath. “With…you know?”

She nodded her head in the direction of Malfoy, who was hunched over his textbook.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, with a shrug. It was true, strangely enough, Malfoy hadn’t said anything obnoxious or insulting so far, which Harry found incredibly out of character for him. It made some amount of sense though; after all, the war had changed everything and his side had lost. As much as he hated it, Harry’s title of The Boy-Who-Lived-Twice practically guaranteed he was untouchable.

He stirred back to focus in front of the cabinet and glanced at his book to make sure he was retrieving the right items. Once his arms were quite full, he headed back to where Malfoy was seated.

“Here,” he said, dropping his load onto the desk. Malfoy jumped ever so slightly at his sudden arrival, but then just nodded hurriedly.

“You can grind the ginger root,” he said, not looking up at Harry but sliding over a mortar and pestle.

“Er, right.” Harry agreed, because they both knew that despite Harry’s unexpected success in their sixth year, Malfoy was still the superior Potions student.

They worked in silence, Harry mindlessly crushing the ginger root while Malfoy meticulously sliced the fairymoss. A few minutes passed like this, until Malfoy straightened up and looked over to see Harry’s work.

“Potter, it’s ginger, not a beetle. You’re not killing anything; gentle circular motions will do the trick.”

Harry stared at him. He wasn’t sure Malfoy had ever uttered a sentence to him that wasn’t ridden with insults. He supposed Malfoy was still telling him off for not doing it correctly, but he almost—dare Harry say it—sounded like Hermione in his admonishing.

“Earth to Potter,” suddenly Malfoy’s fingers were right in front of his face, snapping quickly. “Merlin, I knew you were slow, but even Goyle was quicker than this.”

That sounded much more like the old Malfoy.

Harry scowled at him and went back to work on grinding the ginger root, lightening his hand movements only a bit. After several moments, Malfoy decided it was time to put the leech juice over a flame, and withdrew what looked like to Harry to be an abnormally long wand.

 _“Incendio,”_ Malfoy uttered, but the tiny flames that spurt out of the end of his wand died immediately, not even touching the cauldron.

“Blasted piece of rubbish,” Malfoy cursed, under his breath.

“Here, I can—” Harry stumbled over his words, yanking his own wand from his robe pockets and casting a quick _“Incendio”_. Warm, orange flames instantly flared up under the cauldron. Malfoy looked rather put out, but didn’t say anything; instead, he reached over and grabbed the ground up ginger root from Harry’s side of the table and poured it into the cauldron.

The rest of the class went on in relative silence for Harry and Malfoy, only interrupted by Malfoy occasionally muttering instructions like, “pass the pomegranate seeds”, or mild reprimands like, “does that _look_ like butterscotch to you, Potter? It’s bright green, for Circe’s sake.”

Harry didn’t protest much, since Malfoy was doing most of the work anyway, and by the time the end of class had come around, Harry had done little more than grind the ginger root and hand Malfoy random ingredients, but their potion was exactly the thick, silvery blue it was supposed to be.

“ _Excellent_ work, Mr Potter, as usual! Ten points to Gryffindor!” Slughorn said, delightedly, as he came by their table.

“Er…” Harry didn’t know just what to say to this, as he knew it was really thanks to Malfoy that their potion even came out right, but he couldn’t exactly admit that he had basically done nothing to Slughorn. Before Harry could figure out what to say, however, Slughorn had already moved on to Ella Wilkins’ and Nadine Bellmore’s table. Once they were dismissed, Harry went to say something to Malfoy, perhaps apologize for Slughorn completely ignoring him and crediting their potion to Harry alone, but as soon as Harry turned to face him, Malfoy was already out of his seat and out the door.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bloody wanker,” Finnigan said, somewhat under his breath, but still clearly audible to the entire common room. “Think your Death Eater father’d be proud? Oh, wait, but he’s dead, innit?”
> 
> Draco felt his blood go cold. Without thinking, his hand shot out and grabbed Theo by the wrist, to hold him back from charging at Finnigan. But Theo didn’t make a move. He simply stared at Finnigan, his expression unchanging, but from up close, Draco could see all the colour flood from his face.
> 
> Furiously, Draco looked at Potter. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but wasn’t Potter the one always going on about the war being over and the fighting being behind them? He found himself angered even further when he saw Potter was simply gazing out the window, as if blind to what was occurring right in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, sorry for the late update, hope you enjoy it; it was one of my favorite chapters to write :)

Only a day into classes and already Draco was in half a mind to write a desperate letter to his mother, pleading to let him return to the Manor.

He restrained himself—barely—purely because he pictured the Malfoy matriarch sweeping through the Manor in her long robes, elves trailing after her and attempting to expel as much Dark Magic from the walls as possible, and he knew she wouldn’t spare much mercy for Draco lounging around in Hogwarts.

There wasn’t really much opportunity for lounging, though, not while living in the same quarters as the other Houses. Draco found himself constantly on high alert, scanning his surroundings at all times, making sure he knew who was around him and when. It was nowhere near as horrific as living in the Manor during the Dark Lord’s reign, but Draco certainly did not feel comfortable.

Which was part of the reason why, when he entered the Eighth Year common room, he felt his shoulder relax in relief when he found it empty for the most part, save for a few Slytherins sitting by the windows.

Draco walked over to join them, levitating one of the desk chairs over to sit beside Theo, across from the girls, who were seated up on the windowseat. On the left, with her long golden blonde hair falling elegantly over her shoulders, sat Daphne Greengrass, a piece of parchment floating in the air as she perused over it.

On the right sat Violet Foxblade, the only other Slytherin girl from their year to come back to Hogwarts. Draco didn’t know her very well—in fact, he wasn’t sure if he had ever even spoken to her. She’d always been rather quiet, and kept to herself. She and Daphne had never been close either, not that Draco recalled. She always seemed to be somewhat invisible, and no one knew much about her. Draco had seen her family name—Foxblade—in a book about pureblood genealogy that he’d found in the Manor once, but it was an old book and hadn’t even included Lucius’s generation, let alone Draco’s. The Foxblades weren’t among the Death Eaters, nor any of the Dark Lord’s known supporters. Draco supposed, like the Notts and Greengrasses, they had remained hidden and neutral during the war.

She sat with her legs crossed, a book open in between them. Her thick black hair was piled up messily atop her head and she twirled a quill between her fingers, a far-away look in her eyes.

“How were the rest of your classes?” Theo asked, as Draco took his seat.

Draco merely sighed. “I beg of you, no more conversation about classes today.”

Theo nodded seriously, clearly understanding what Draco meant.

Daphne looked up at him, her bright blue eyes shining. “That bad?”

“He’s paired with Potter in Potions.” Theo supplied.

Daphne snorted. “Of course. Why make it easier on us?”

Her use of the word ‘us’ had Draco curious.

“How were yours, then?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “About how you’d expect, I suppose. Professor Babbling barely looked at me, even though no one else knew _any_ answers, besides Granger, of course. Then on my way to the Great Hall from Ancient Runes, Zacharias Smith thought it ever-so-funny to call me a ‘Death Eater whore’ and throw a Stinging Hex my way.”

Violet, who seemed not to be paying much attention till then, suddenly snapped her head to look over at Daphne.

“He hexed you?” she asked, her voice sounding rather intense.

“He tried.” Daphne correcting, smirking. “His aim is shite; he didn’t even get close.”

“Zacharias Smith is a piece of hippogriff dung,” Violet said, decisively, and Draco wondered how she had ever seemed quiet and invisible—she certainly didn’t seem it now. “You know he didn’t even fight during the Battle of Hogwarts? He fled with the first years like the bloody coward he is. And now he wants to act all high and mighty?”

“Did he really?” Theo interjected, interestedly. “But wasn’t he part of Potter’s little club during fifth year? Dumbledore’s Army, or whatever rubbish it was?”

Violet shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you.”

Draco was wondering about something else though.

“How did you know?” he asked her, looking into her hazel eyes as if trying to read her mind _._ “That Smith fled, I mean?”

“Because I was there.” Violet said, simply. “I hid amongst the Ravenclaws when they sent the Slytherins off. Quite a few of the seventh and sixth years did too.”

“Why?” Draco persisted.

“Because we wanted to fight.” Violet replied, not breaking eye contact with him the entire time. “It was narrow-minded and senseless to send the entire House of Slytherin away. I know our history, I know most of the Death Eaters were Slytherins, but we didn’t all affiliate with them. We wanted to fight for Hogwarts.”

Draco, Daphne, and Theo all stared at Violet in shock. Of course Draco knew that not all Slytherins were Death Eaters, it was ignorant to think that they were. He hadn’t, however, known that any Slytherins had remained to fight on the other side during the Battle. He’d assumed they’d all just…gone home, ran away. Now that he thought about it, it was a rather foolish assumption.

“Better you than me.” Theo said, though not unkindly. “I wasn’t even in the country.”

Draco had heard that about him, though he had never been sure. It had always just been a rumour—that Nott’s elderly father had taken him to France after Dumbledore’s death. Draco had always wished it was true—the entire time through the Dark Lord’s reign. He had prayed—to everything, to nothing—that Theo was somewhere safe. It was the only thing he dared hope for, that Theo make it out of this alive.

He felt a warmth rise up his neck at the thought, and quickly realigned his focus onto the conversation that had carried on without him.

Daphne was speaking, looking at Violet with a mingled expression of worry and…perhaps admiration?

“Were you hurt? Did people think you were on the Dark Lord’s side? Did anything happen to you?”

Violet smiled at her, as though touched by her concern.

“Let’s be honest, nobody knew who I was.” She said, though sounding not at all upset by this. “I just took off my Slytherin colours and blended right in. And,” she added, looking at Daphne rather fondly. “I’m alright. Took some hits, got a few broken bones, and I’m left with a couple scars, but I was patched up quite wonderfully.”

Daphne and the boys continued to stare at Violet, in awe of this flood of new information about their classmate.

Aware that she was being gawked at, Violet raised her eyebrows at them, “Come off it, now. I wasn’t the only one there.”

“I’m glad you’re alright.” Daphne said, reaching out and squeezing her arm gently.

Violet smiled sadly at her. “Me too. But I didn’t stay and fight just to have my friends called Death Eater whores in the halls.”

Daphne just snorted once again. “Oh, please, I can handle Zacharias Smith. You know, it’s the younger Slytherins I worry about more. Did you know only _three_ Slytherin seventh years came back this year?”

“What?” Theo demanded, sharply. “Where are the rest of them?”

“Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, I suspect. Or dead.” She replied in a dull tone.

“Tracey died in the Battle.” Violet said, quietly, speaking of the other would-be eighth year Slytherin girl, besides Pansy and Millicent, of course.

“Who are they? The seventh years who came back, I mean.” Draco asked, remembering a small-looking Slytherin girl in his Potions class.

“There’s Tobias Harper, you know, that annoying one who played backup Seeker for you sixth year? Sort of looks like a rat?” at Draco’s nod, Daphne continued, “Then there’s Edgar Caverly; he’s a weird sort, rather quiet, but he speaks mermish for some odd reason so he was always pressed up against the glass talking to the merpeople. And then there’s Ella Wilkins. She’s the only girl who stayed, so they’ve got her in the dorm with Astoria and the other sixth year girls.”

“She’s in Potions with us.” Theo said, confirming Draco’s deduction. “Tiny little thing, isn’t she?”

“That Gryffindor girl nearly swallowed her whole today,” Draco agreed.

A loud shuffling of stone interrupted them and they all turned to see the bricks of the entrance to the eighth year common room unfolding to reveal a gaggle of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs—among them, Draco noticed immediately, Potter and Weasley.

The group seemed to notice the Slytherins swiftly and while Draco’s eyes dropped to the floor, he knew that Daphne, Violet, and Theo didn’t break eye contact. He felt like a coward, but then again, it wasn’t like any of them had been Death Eaters. Violet had even fought on the _Order’s_ side, for Merlin’s sake.

“What’re you looking at, Nott?” Finnigan finally snapped.

“Merely observing how absolutely covered in dust your robes are. How are you not sneezing every minute?” Theo responded, smoothly.

While it _was_ Finnigan who instigated the exchange, Draco tugged gently on Theo’s robes, not wanting him to get himself into a fight.

“You _really_ wanna run yer mouth?” Finnigan’s fair skin seemed to be reddening slightly. The tall one, his friend—Thomas, Draco thought his name was—tried to pull him back slightly.

“Leave it, Seamus.” He said. “He’s not worth it.”

“Thank you, Thomas, but I’d rather not have _you_ deciding what I am or am not worth.” Theo clipped and Draco found it incredibly well-restrained of him to leave it there.

“Bloody wanker,” Finnigan said, somewhat under his breath, but still clearly audible to the entire common room. “Think your Death Eater father’d be proud? Oh, wait, but he’s dead, innit?”

Draco felt his blood go cold. Without thinking, his hand shot out and grabbed Theo by the wrist, to hold him back from charging at Finnigan. But Theo didn’t make a move. He simply stared at Finnigan, his expression unchanging, but from up close, Draco could see all the colour flood from his face.

Furiously, Draco looked at Potter. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but wasn’t Potter the one always going on about the war being over and the fighting being behind them? He found himself angered even further when he saw Potter was simply gazing out the window, as if blind to what was occurring right in front of him.

Daphne was the one to jump in.

“Keep a tighter leash around that one next time, Thomas.” She spoke curtly. “And feel free to remind him that Sylvester Nott was never associated with the Death Eaters and that he died of natural causes in his home in France. Neither he nor Theo were even in Britain during the war. I’m confident your friend has more blood on his hands than any of us evil Slytherins do.”

With that, she simply swept up her things with a wave of her wand and gestured for Violet to follow her up into the girls’ dormitories. Theo was quick to stand as well, refusing to look at Draco, and hurrying off into his own dormitory. Draco shot one last vicious look over at Potter, finding bright green eyes staring back at him. Ripping his gaze away, Draco followed Theo up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories.

He entered Theo’s shared room with the Hufflepuffs to find it empty, other than one bed on the far side of the room with the bedcurtains shut.

“Theo?” he said, gently. “It’s just me.”

He heard a sigh and then the curtain was pulled to the side to reveal Theo, blinking up at him.

“Draco.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “You didn’t have to come after me.”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” Draco murmured, walking over and sitting beside Theo on the side of his bed.

“I’m fine,” he replied, offering a slight smile and letting his hand fall onto Draco’s leg.

Draco felt his breathing pick up ever so slightly. Ever since the _incident_ in fifth year, Draco had been careful not to get trapped alone in a room with Theo. He made sure there was always someone else there as a buffer—it used to be Crabbe and Goyle, or sometimes Blaise. He knew it was safer that way, that way nothing could _happen._

Theo was looking at him, his dark eyes wide and questioning, and Draco looked away, his heart beating rather quickly.

“What?” he mumbled, scared that if he spoke aloud his voice would be trembling.

“You’re a good friend,” Theo said, his lips pressing into a small smile. “Thank you.”

Draco’s eyes snapped back to him and bloody hell, he was going to go for it anyway, wasn’t he, blast the consequences and all. He felt his eyelids slowly flutter close and then—WHAM! The door to the dormitory swung open and Draco and Theo jumped apart.

“What’s this Daphne tells me about some Gryffindor prat giving you a hard time?” Blaise demanded as soon as he entered the room. “Oh, Draco, you’re here too, good. Please tell me who it is so I can have my mother marry his father and then kill him off.”


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry didn’t know how Hermione felt about Waya’s casual nature, but he himself was starting to like him. He reminded him, Harry realized with a pang in his heart, of Remus.
> 
> “Let’s get started, then.” He said, clapping his hands together. “I assume you are all familiar with boggarts.”
> 
> There was a murmur of assent from the class, but no one sounded particularly happy about it. Riddikulusmay have been a third year spell, but boggarts were disliked by people of all ages. No one really looked forward to confronting their worst fears. Neville especially looked rather distressed. Waya chuckled slightly at this reaction, and Harry was even more overwhelmed with memories of Remus.
> 
> “I know, they’re not my favourite either. Let’s get this over with then, shall we?” he said, and with a flick of two of his fingers, the door to a broom closet over on the right opened and a desk came barrelling into the classroom.

Harry found himself rather nervous as he walked with Ron and Hermione towards their first Defence class. He supposed he had good reason, given how unpredictable Defence classes tended to be, due to the instructor constantly changing. Hermione had reminded him that Voldemort had cursed the position and now that he was dead, so was the curse. She was right, of course, and it made good sense, but Harry couldn’t help the irrational feeling of anxiety creeping up in his stomach.

When they arrived in the classroom, Waya Boxturtle was standing at the front, leaning against his deck and waiting for the room to fill up.

Seamus, Dean, and Neville were already seated and Ron automatically steered to sit around them. Harry followed, but he couldn’t stop from thinking about the events of the night before.

He knew Seamus was angry. He knew Seamus had every _right_ to be angry—he remembered Seamus’ face when he’d returned to Hogwarts the night of the Battle, how Dean had barely recognized his best friend due to all his injuries.

But what had happened yesterday didn’t sit right in Harry’s stomach. The Slytherins hadn’t been _doing_ anything, they were just sitting by the window. And sure, Nott was a bit of a prat, but he hadn’t antagonized Seamus.

He thought about what the Greengrass girl said, about how Nott’s father had never even been a Death Eater. He had thought he was. He wondered if she’d been lying, but then, what would be the point? Everyone seemed to hate the Slytherins nonetheless. He tried to remember where he had heard that Nott’s father had died in the war. Had he heard wrong? Had he been told that Nott’s father died _during_ the war and, since Nott was a Slytherin, Harry had just assumed?

He felt terrible. Nott had looked paler than Malfoy when he took off towards the dormitories and if the Greengrass girl was right, Seamus had just needlessly harassed him about his father’s death. Nott’s father had been a widower, which meant Nott was now an orphan.

Like Harry.

“Welcome, welcome,” came a warm but gravelly voice and Harry refocused his attention to the professor. “My name is Waya Boxturtle. Please, call me Waya.”

People seemed quite surprised by this, and Hermione furrowed her eyebrows.

“As you may know, I previously taught Defence Against the Dark Arts at Ilvermorny. I myself attended there as a youth. I know you have been through several professors in your years here at Hogwarts, so I think for the first few days together, we will go through some review work based on my curriculum for the years below you. Once I have a grasp on where we are as a class, we’ll get started on the good stuff. Any questions?”

Hermione’s hand flew into the air.

“Yes?” Waya called on her.

“Sir, may I ask why you left Ilvermorny?” she asked.

The man smiled, his dark eyes twinkling. “What is your name?”

“Hermione Granger, sir.”

“Hermione,” he said, slowly. “A lovely name. Greek, if I remember correctly. Well, Hermione, the simple answer is I believed I was needed. I taught at Ilvermorny for sixteen years, I consider it my home. However, I knew that Hogwarts was rebuilding and would be needing a new Defence teacher and it just so happened that one of my previous students was beginning his own teaching career. I decided that I could offer my services here at Hogwarts and recommend my student as my replacement at Ilvermorny. And please,” he added with a warm smile. “Waya is just fine. No need to call me sir.”

Harry didn’t know how Hermione felt about Waya’s casual nature, but he himself was starting to like him. He reminded him, Harry realized with a pang in his heart, of Remus.

“Let’s get started, then.” He said, clapping his hands together. “I assume you are all familiar with boggarts.”

There was a murmur of assent from the class, but no one sounded particularly happy about it. _Riddikulus_ may have been a third year spell, but boggarts were disliked by people of all ages. No one really looked forward to confronting their worst fears. Neville especially looked rather distressed. Waya chuckled slightly at this reaction, and Harry was even more overwhelmed with memories of Remus.

“I know, they’re not my favourite either. Let’s get this over with then, shall we?” he said, and with a flick of two of his fingers, the door to a broom closet over on the right opened and a desk came barrelling into the classroom.

There were several gasps from the class and Harry didn’t know if it was because of the rattling desk or the powerful wandless magic their new instructor had so casually just performed. For Harry, it was the latter. Everyone had made such a big deal about how he could perform a few basic spells wandlessly, going on about how only the strongest witches and wizards could do it. Even Hermione had said how difficult it was to master wandless magic, and here their new professor was tossing desks around the room so effortlessly.

“Any volunteers to go first?” Waya asked, his eyebrow raised and a smirk playing at his lips. There was a lengthy silence, which was then interrupted by a sigh from Ron.

“Might as well get it over with,” he said glumly and got to his feet.

“Wonderful!” said Waya, his smirk widening into a grin. Looking at the red and gold scarf carelessly draped over the back of the seat Ron had just vacated, he continued, “A Gryffindor? The house of the brave, I was told. Looks like I wasn’t lied to! What’s your name?”

“Ron Weasley,” Ron responded, with far less enthusiasm in his voice than was in Waya’s.

“Ah! I just had your sister in my last class. Incredible young woman, a firecracker!” Waya said warmly, clapping a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Alright, Ron, I assume you’ve faced a boggart before.”

“In third year,” Ron confirmed, looking like he rather regretted his courageous bid to go first.

“What shape did it take?”

“An Acromantula.” It came out rather slowly, as if Ron was reluctant to even say it aloud. Waya nodded with a look of understanding.

“Do you think it’s changed since then?”

Ron shrugged, his hand slightly tensing around his wand. “Wouldn’t know.”

“Well, let’s find out then. Remember to think of something _funny_.” Waya said with a touch of finality. “Wand raised.”

Ron raised his wand and Waya did a little twisting motion with his fingers and the drawers of the desk flew open.

It wasn’t an Acromantula.

It was, however, what looked like an army of spiders. Thousands and thousands of little black spiders poured out of the drawers all over the desk and the floor, all heading towards Ron, their many legs moving so quickly they seemed to blur. Harry couldn’t even blame him for the terrified wide-eyed expression he had; it wasn’t a pleasant sight.

“ _Riddikulus!_ ” Ron said, firmly, and instantly, the spiders transformed before their eyes. Harry couldn’t help but laugh when he saw they had turned into butterflies. A soft chorus of “Ooh”s came from the classroom, in response to all the beautiful colours of the butterflies’ wings.

“Hmm,” Waya tapped his chin. “That was certainly effective, Ron. I’m just wondering, how are butterflies funny to you?”

Harry laughed harder and Ron’s ears began to go pink.

“It’s an inside joke,” he finally mumbled.

“Well, it definitely worked. Good job, five points to Gryffindor. Who’s next?”

When he returned to his seat, Ron scowled at Harry, who was still grinning.

“I guess I’ll go,” Seamus said, standing. “If Ron can go through a war and a madman trying to kill everyone and still fear spiders the most, I think I’ll be fine.”

A few people laughed, but Harry automatically looked to the back of the classroom, where the Slytherins were seated. It was only Malfoy and two girls. One of them was the older Greengrass girl and the other one looked vaguely familiar to Harry, but he couldn’t recall her name. She’d been there last night, when the whole Theo mess had gone down.

They weren’t laughing, but they didn’t look particularly put out. The Greengrass girl looked somewhat bored, the other girl was watching Seamus with sharp eyes, and Malfoy…well, Malfoy looked quite concerned about something. His brow was furrowed so much that his forehead was showing wrinkles.

Seamus had just turned his banshee into an opera singer and Dean was stepping forward.

Was Malfoy afraid of the boggart? Harry didn’t remember what his boggart was, he wasn’t sure if they had even got around to Malfoy back in third year. Remembering what Remus had said about why he had stopped Harry from facing the boggart the first time, he wondered if Malfoy’s boggart was Voldemort. He wondered if Waya would consider this. He hadn’t known Hermione or Ron’s names, but that made sense since he wasn’t from Britain. Would he know Malfoy’s?

He was distracted from his thoughts about Malfoy by Neville, who had just stepped up to the boggart. While he still looked considerably nervous, he was nowhere near the shy, trembling boy he had been back in third year. Harry privately thought that one of the only good things that had come out of the war was Neville’s rise in self-esteem. He had finally realized that he was as good as a wizard as any, better than most in fact.

As Neville approached the boggart, Harry waited for it to turn into Professor Snape, but it didn’t. Instead, it morphed into something much smaller, sitting on the floor. Harry craned his neck to see and he felt his heart jump when he saw the Sorting Hat ablaze.

It made sense of course, having a hat that was on your head set on fire must be a traumatizing experience. He just hadn’t thought, out of all the things in the war, that was what had struck Neville the most.

Neville flinched, but held his wand steady and cast, “ _Riddikulus!”_

The flames vanished and the hat seemed to rise from the floor for a moment, but then showed a tiny little bunny underneath it, chirping loudly and trying to get free of the hat. Warm laughter filled the room and Harry felt his heart lighten again.

“Harry,” said Waya, looking at him expectantly. Harry obediently rose from his seat, not failing to notice how Waya had known his name without asking.

He walked up to the boggart, raising his wand, and awaiting the dementor. He knew how to deal with a real dementor, so a boggart would be no problem, but he couldn’t help feel his stomach twisting in nervousness and anticipation.

The dementor didn’t come.

It started to form into a similar shape, but it wasn’t a cloaked shadowy figure, it was far more…human. And it was about as tall as Harry was…and had glasses…and the same messy hair. Was it his dad? Harry felt a jolt in his stomach.

But no. This man was older, maybe in his mid-thirties, but his glasses were round and—Harry felt something sharp add to the already uncomfortable feeling in his stomach—he had that familiar lightning shaped scar on his forehead.

Boggart-Harry just stared at him. His eyes were tired, they had heavy bags under them, and when he lifted his hand to push his hair out of his face, Harry noticed a silver ring around his finger.

He was frozen. He hadn’t expected this. He didn’t know how he possibly could have expected it. How was he supposed to make this funny? There was nothing funny about this! He didn’t even know what it meant! How was he his own worst fear? Was he afraid of getting older? Afraid of getting married? Afraid of the future?

“Harry?” Waya said in a soft tone. Harry’s eyes snapped to him. He was looking at Harry with a gentle, understanding expression on his face. Harry wanted to demand what he was looking so understanding about, when Harry himself had no idea what was going on.

Merlin. Alright. Focus. Something funny.

“ _Riddikulus!”_ he croaked and watched his future-self transform into a giant novelty Harry Potter bobble head.

“Excellent.” Waya nodded at Harry, and gestured for him to sit back down.

Hermione and Ron were waiting at their table with wide eyes and questioning glances. Harry just shook his head at them. They seemed to take this as an answer for now, but Harry knew there would be many questions after this. Hermione’s expression was unreadable.

The next few people’s boggarts were more standard—Hannah’s was a dragon, Oliver Rivers’ was gushing blood, Padma’s was a cobra, Hermione’s was her parents looking at her unrecognizably—and Harry’s mind was spinning, unable to figure out what his own boggart meant.

He couldn’t imagine why he would be afraid of getting older. For so long, he hadn’t known if he was even going to survive his adolescence. He was bloody lucky to be alive at all, and even luckier to have a chance at a real, normal life in the future. Why on earth would he be _scared_ of that?

It was only when Waya looked at the back of the class and beckoned the Slytherins forward that Harry’s attention was brought back to the classroom.

The Greengrass girl went first, telling Waya her name at his request—Daphne, it was. Harry made a mental note to remember it. She had a hard expression on her face and didn’t shake one bit when she raised her wand and approached the boggart.

Harry watched curiously as the boggart formed into a wedding dress, that floated ominously towards Daphne. She made no moves to indicate that she was frightened at all—Harry supposed that the fear of a wedding dress was more symbolic than anything, similar to the way Remus’s was, having been the full moon—and clenched her jaw before uttering, _“Riddikulus!”_

The long white gown transformed itself into a clown costume, complete with honking red nose and massive striped shoes and Daphne stepped back with a satisfied expression on her face.

Waya looked quite happy with her and awarded ten points to Slytherin before looking towards Malfoy and the other girl. They looked at each other; both had guarded expressions, but they seemed to be communicating with their eyes. Harry desperately wanted to know what was being said—or not said, rather.

The girl stepped forward and gave her name to Waya when asked.

“Violet Foxblade.” She said, strongly, and stepped forwards, lifting her wand into the air.

The next thing Harry saw made his heart nearly stop in his chest.

A girl, who couldn’t be older than fifteen, with thick dark hair similar to Violet’s, was lying on the floor, blood pouring from countless injuries on her body. Her clothes—which Harry couldn’t help but notice were Muggle jeans and a t-shirt—were ripped and dishevelled, her arms were covered in bruises, some new and some old.

Violet stared at the lifeless body before her. Like Harry had been, she seemed to be frozen, unable to open her mouth and cast the spell. The longer she stood there, the more blood poured from the girl, the more her body sagged lifelessly.

“Enough.”

It was Malfoy who had spoken, quietly but firmly, causing all eyes to fall on him. As Harry's gaze flew to him, he was already pulling his wand out and striding forward. He pulled Violet back by her shoulders and stepped in front of her, waiting for the boggart to assume another form.

Harry took a deep breath, ready to see the snakelike face of Voldemort. But his assumptions were wrong once again. Malfoy’s boggart did take the shape of a man, but a different one—a tall one in formal black robes, with long pale blond hair slicked back…

Lucius Malfoy.

He was sneering at Malfoy and withdrew a wand to point at him as he seemed to charge him. Harry was halfway out of his seat before he realized what he was doing, thanks to Ron grabbing his arm and yanking him back into his chair, giving him an incredulous look.

 _“Riddikulus!”_ Malfoy said, clearly. The boggart didn’t change form the way it normally should, however Lucius’ pin straight hair began to frizz up into curls reminiscent of Bellatrix’s, sending the fake Lucius into a panic. It _was_ pretty funny.

Waya, who had been observing Malfoy and Violet carefully, waved his hand at the desk and the boggart was forced back into its drawers.

The class was silent. Everyone was staring at the Slytherins.

Waya regarded Violet gently.

“Violet, do you need a moment?”

Violet looked at him, her face utterly expressionless. “No, thank you. I’m fine. They’re supposed to be frightening. I’m sorry I couldn’t cast the spell.”

Waya smiled sadly at her. “I avoided approaching the boggart because I didn’t want to expose the class to a dead body. But I forget you children have lived through a war. We can’t expect them all to be spiders, can we?”

Violet gave a stunted nod and let Malfoy and Greengrass lead her back to their seats. Harry watched them, watched how Greengrass looked at Violet with worry all over her face, watched how blank Malfoy’s face was.

“Alright, class.” Waya faced the class again. “Let’s move on to Shield Charms.”


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “May I inquire why you wish you pursue Potions?”
> 
> Draco looked up at her, then up at Dumbledore, then—with another jolt in his stomach—at the portrait next to his, which contained a stony-faced Severus Snape, whose eyes bored into Draco like he was trying to burn a hole through his skull.
> 
> “It’s my best subject,” Draco supplied, looking back at McGonagall, mostly because he knew Snape would be disappointed with that answer.
> 
> McGonagall didn’t look too pleased herself.
> 
> “That may be true, Mr Malfoy, but that’s no reason to pursue an apprenticeship in such a complex subject. Do you envision yourself working as a Potioneer?”
> 
> Draco felt his shoulders slump.
> 
> “Not really,” he replied, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized that it's been more than a week since I posted! My bad, I'm sorry <3 Hope you enjoy! Also gush over how wonderful Minerva McGonagall is with me!

Draco thought today’s Defence class was quite enough drama for the day, but his schedule had other plans for him, because today also happened to be the day he was to meet with his Head of House in order to establish what sort of apprenticeship he would be pursuing this year.

He desperately, selfishly wished Severus was still alive. As cantankerous as the old Potions Master had been, Draco had felt comfortable around him. He had always looked out for Draco, despite Draco—stupidly—insisting he could handle everything by himself. He remembered Severus trying to help him in sixth year and felt a bitter sort of anger wash through him. He had been so foolish.

He sighed as he reached Slughorn’s quarters. He had never been chosen as one of Slughorn’s special favourites and while that used to bother him to no end, he found that now he couldn’t bring himself to care any less. He had no desire to be _special_ anymore, he just wanted to get by.

“Ah, Mr Malfoy,” Slughorn said, seeing Draco through the peephole. “Come in, come in.”

The door swung open and Draco entered, trying not to be overwhelmed by the many different patterns assaulting his eyes all at once. Slughorn had sofas and carpets and lamps everywhere, all of varying styles and materials, and all aggressively vibrant in colour.

“Sit, Mr Malfoy, sit.” Slughorn encouraged from his place on an olive green velvet armchair.

“Thank you, sir,” Draco said, carefully, taking a seat across from him on the edge of a dark orange loveseat.

“So! Tell me, Mr Malfoy, what is it you have an interest in pursuing?”

Draco responded, “Well, sir, Potions has always been my best subject.”

“Potions, hmm?” Slughorn murmured unhelpfully. “Anything in particular you’d like to do _with_ Potions or are you interested in becoming a Potioneer?”

Draco paused. “I’m not sure, Professor,” he said, honestly.

Slughorn wasn’t looking at Draco, he appeared far more interested in the crystal glass of brandy in his left hand.

“Well, I’m sure there’s something else you could do,” he said, dismissively, and Draco found himself bristling at how casually Slughorn was taking this. He knew that he had scoffed at the idea of having any sort of future himself, but it felt very different when someone else—a professor, at that—was doing it.

“Something else, sir?” he asked, his jaw clenched as he worked hard to remain polite.

“Yes, yes. Perhaps Potions isn’t the right field for you. It takes…a certain kind of wizard.” Slughorn still wasn’t meeting his eyes and took another sip of brandy.

“May I meet with the Headmistress instead?” Draco suddenly asked, his voice hard.

Slughorn actually looked at him now, his eyebrows raised.

“Why?” he asked.

“She’s the one who invited me back to Hogwarts. She seems to be the only one who thinks I have a future at all.” _Besides my mother,_ he neglected to add.

Slughorn looked affronted for only a moment and then his face relaxed.

“Very well, Mr Malfoy, if you wish. I can ask her when would be—”

“I’ll go now,” Draco interrupted, rising to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

He tacked on the thanks so he wouldn’t sound excessively rude—he didn’t want to give anyone a reason to accuse him of reverting back to his old ways—and then turned and left Slughorn’s quarters as quickly as he came.

By the time he reached the entrance to the Headmistress’s office, he was beginning to doubt his decision. What reason did he really have to be seeing her instead of Slughorn? Would it look like he was seeking preferential treatment of some kind? After all, Minerva McGonagall was certainly not his biggest fan.

A more immediate issue had presented itself to Draco, however, as he stood in front of the gargoyle and realized he did not have the password to get up to the Headmistress’s office.

He stood there for a moment, feeling quite stupid for not having thought of this. He was just wondering if he’d be better off just going back to Slughorn and agreeing to pursue an apprenticeship in Charms or something when someone cleared their throat behind him.

He whirled around to find Professor McGonagall looking at him from behind her rectangular glasses, her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised.

“Headmistress,” he released in a breath.

“Is there something I can assist you with, Mr Malfoy?” she asked, expectantly.

“I was hoping I could have a word with you, Headmistress,” said Draco in his most respectful tone.

McGonagall regarded him for a moment, and Draco felt like she was moments away from taking points from Slytherin, but then her face cleared.

“Very well, then. Follow me.” She turned to face the gargoyle and said clearly, “ _Phoenix tears.”_

Draco watched as the gargoyle stepped aside to reveal a short spiral staircase. McGonagall stepped up on one of the higher steps and motioned for Draco to do the same. He followed suit, careful to leave several steps between himself and the Headmistress. The staircase then began to move, twisting and carrying them upwards until they had reached the top.

The Headmistress’ office was rather cluttered, though everything seemed to be neatly ordered in its rightful place. Magical objects filled the room and Draco would’ve loved to spend hours examining each and every one of them. McGonagall, however, did not seem to have time to waste.

“Have a seat, Mr Malfoy,” she said, gesturing to the spindly purple chairs that sat in front of the desk and herself moving to sit behind it. Draco sat and looked up at McGonagall, intending to get right to the point, but finding himself frozen.

Right above McGonagall’s head, in an elegant golden frame, hung the portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He was wearing sky blue wizards robes with shining stars on them and his blue eyes twinkled as they gazed down at Draco.

McGonagall seemed to know what was distracting Draco.

In a much softer voice, she said, “Mr Malfoy? Is something the matter?”

His eyes snapped back to hers.

“I was supposed to have my meeting with my Head of House today,” he said, trying to ignore Dumbledore’s portrait and the intense twisting pain in his stomach that he felt because of it.

McGonagall quirked an eyebrow up, waiting for more.

“And Professor Slughorn—well, he—I mean, I don’t think—I can’t—” Draco cursed at himself in his head for being so impetuous; here he had been trying so hard to keep his head down, to stay invisible, to go unnoticed, and he had to go storming off to the Headmistress just because he felt Slughorn wasn’t taking his _future_ seriously enough. Honestly, Slughorn was probably right. Whether he got his N.E.W.T.s or not, Draco’s future had been stamped out the minute he’d taken the Dark Mark.

“Is there a field of study that you wish to pursue, Mr Malfoy?” McGonagall asked, coolly. Draco blinked at her.

“Potions,” he said, automatically. “But Slughorn—”

“ _Professor_ Slughorn is not the only Potions Master we have at our disposal, Mr Malfoy, and I would wager he would find himself far too busy with classes and Head of House duties to take on eighth year apprentices this year regardless.”

Draco felt his body release tension he hadn’t even realize he’d been holding.

“Oh,” he said.

McGonagall looked at him curiously.

“May I inquire why you wish you pursue Potions?”

Draco looked up at her, then up at Dumbledore, then—with another jolt in his stomach—at the portrait next to his, which contained a stony-faced Severus Snape, whose eyes bored into Draco like he was trying to burn a hole through his skull.

“It’s my best subject,” Draco supplied, looking back at McGonagall, mostly because he _knew_ Snape would be disappointed with that answer.

McGonagall didn’t look too pleased herself.

“That may be true, Mr Malfoy, but that’s no reason to pursue an apprenticeship in such a complex subject. Do you envision yourself working as a Potioneer?”

Draco felt his shoulders slump.

“Not really,” he replied, honestly. He didn’t dare look up at Snape, but McGonagall seemed to know what he was thinking regardless.

“That’s quite alright, Mr Malfoy,” she said, crisply. “I’m well aware you were Severus’s favourite student; however, that should not cause you to feel an obligation to one day fill his position.”

Draco chanced a glance up at Snape’s portrait. He was relieved to see a smirk playing at Snape’s mouth.

“What about Transfiguration?” McGonagall went on. “I seem to recall you did rather well in _my_ classes as well.”

“I haven’t been doing well so far this year,” Draco admitted, looking downwards in automatic shame. It was true. Although they were barely a week into classes, Draco had made absolutely no headway with Self-Transfiguration, and he was usually one of the first to make progress, after Granger.

“Why is that?” McGonagall persisted.

Draco tried to hold himself back, he really did.

“It’s because of this _maddening_ wand!” he burst out, grabbing his wand from his pocket and tossing it haphazardly on McGonagall’s desk. “I’ve used other people’s wands before, I know wands can have difficulty harnessing a wizard’s power if not finely attuned to the wizard using it, but I have _never_ encountered a wand so utterly useless before in my life. Yes, kneazle hair does make for weaker wands, but I can barely cast a _Lumos_ without it going out in three seconds flat. _‘Known to bring luck,’_ I ought to sue him and ruin his entire business…” Draco realized he was rambling a bit too late and quickly shut his mouth and leaned back in his seat, feeling embarrassed.

Several of the portraits were looking at him now and when Draco dared to look up at Dumbledore, he was surprised to see that the old man looked rather amused.

“What kind of wand is this? Kneazle hair, you said?” McGonagall asked, picking up the wand rather delicately and acting as though Draco hadn’t just had a ridiculous outburst. He found himself feeling grateful for that, if nothing else.

“Redwood and kneazle hair, fifteen inches, pliable,” he recited, listlessly. “I should’ve _known_ there was something wrong with it, fifteen inches? I’m neither loud nor a giant, _honestly_ , and wood from coniferous trees never reacts well with mammal hair in wands, it’s common knowledge, really; I can’t believe he charged me five Galleons for this piece of rubbish, the audacity…”

“Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall cleared her throat rather firmly, and Draco flushed and promptly shut up. But when he looked at McGonagall, she didn’t look reprimanding. Instead, she had a curious glint in her eye, one that Draco recognized. She wore that look when watching Quidditch matches, he decided, and _especially_ right before Potter caught the Snitch.

“Have you considered studying wandlore?”

The question took Draco by surprise and he stared at her with wide eyes.

“Can one even _study_ wandlore?” he asked, his voice hushed. Wandlore wasn’t something one could just research in the library; it was an intricate, secretive kind of magic, an art almost. When he was younger, Draco had hungrily devoured all he could possibly read about wands—and everything else—but there was no information available on the craft itself. For good reason, too, it certainly wouldn’t be good if just anyone could make a wand whenever they wanted. The craft of wandmaking was usually handed down generationally, so the secrets remained within the wandmaking families. The Ollivanders were, of course, the most famous wandmaking family in Britain, but Draco knew of others. Gregorovitch had come from a family of wandmakers. He had also read about Kinta Wolfe, the granddaughter of the famous Native American wandmaker Shikoba Wolfe, and Alejandro Allegretto, the latest in a long line of successful Argentinian wandmakers. 

“What other way would you propose learning it?” McGonagall responded, but she was holding back a small smile. “Is this something you’re interested in, then?”

Draco nodded emphatically, unable to put into words how immensely _interested_ he was.

“I do need to impress on you, though I’m sure you’re aware, there is a reason wandlore is kept so well-hidden.” The Headmistress’s voice was stern once again. “I will do my best to find you a mentor that wishes to pass their skills on, but there may be some stipulations regarding secrecy spells.”

“Yes, Headmistress, I understand,” Draco was still nodding and he had to practically force his head to stay still.

“Very well, then. I believe lunch is about to start, best be headed down to the Great Hall,” she said, rising from her seat. Draco quickly did the same, but paused when she began to head back towards the spiral staircase.

“Mr Malfoy?” she asked.

Draco had never behaved so out of sorts with a professor before, had never lost control of his temper, or had an outburst, or stuttered as much as he had today, so he couldn’t help but think, _to hell with it._

“Could I—could I perhaps…have a moment…with Professor…?” he gestured vaguely towards McGonagall’s desk, but thankfully, he saw comprehension reach her eyes. She offered him a soft smile, which looked somewhat out of place on her normally stern face.

“Of course. If I don’t see you in the Great Hall in the next twenty minutes, though, I’ll be forced to come back and get you, and I think you’ll find I’m rather nasty when interrupted at mealtimes.”

Draco couldn’t believe it—he was smiling.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said genuinely. “And thank you for talking with me.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr Malfoy. You were sent that letter for a reason. You are wanted back here at Hogwarts.”

Draco stared at her, and thankfully, she didn’t seem to expect a reply, just gave him another knowing smile and retreated down the moving staircase.

He turned around to face the two portraits, hanging side by side. They couldn’t look more different—Dumbledore with his white hair and pale blue robes and the light golden frame, next to Snape in his typical black, a disdainful expression, his dark hair hanging in his face. Even Snape’s frame was a deep chestnut brown.

“Wandlore, Draco?” Snape said, curling his lip slightly. “And all these years, here I thought I was instructing the next great Potions Master.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” said Draco. “Are you disappointed?”

“Nonsense, my boy,” this came from Dumbledore, and Draco looked at him in surprise. To add to Draco’s shock, Dumbledore was smiling down at him, his eyes crinkling as they regarded him. “Wandmaking is an honourable art and a difficult one at that. I will admit, I had quite an interest in wandlore back in my day. But Garrick was very careful not to let any secrets slip around me, and quite right he was in doing so!”

Draco felt a wave of guilt wash over him at the mention of Ollivander. He knew that Ollivander would certainly not be willing to mentor him, not after the ordeal he had suffered in the Manor’s dungeons. Draco just hoped that McGonagall would be able to find another good wandmaker that would be willing to teach him.

“I am not disappointed, Draco,” Snape reassured him. “Merely surprised. You are a man of many talents and I am sure you will prosper as you did in my class.”

Warmed by the unexpected compliment, Draco smiled again.

“Thank you, Professor,” he then looked at Dumbledore, trying to ignore the pain that welled up inside him as he did so. “And Professor Dumbledore—”

Dumbledore cut him off before he could get another word in.

“No need for apologies, young Draco. You are gifted with a glorious second chance here, and it would be wasteful to spend your time punishing yourself for past mistakes. It is up to you, Draco, what you choose to do with those mistakes: repeat them, or learn from them.”

“Yes, sir,” Draco nodded obediently, which just made the old Headmaster chuckle.

“You always did believe me a bit full of myself, didn’t you? Well, you may not have been entirely wrong. Go on now and join your friends at lunch.”

“Thank you, Professor,” he said, nodding at both Dumbledore and Snape and then striding off down the spiral staircase and towards the Great Hall, feeling a sense of purpose return to his steps.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is that something you think you might like to pursue?”
> 
> “Er…what exactly, sir?” Harry asked, confused.
> 
> “Teaching.”
> 
> Harry stared at him.
> 
> “I, er, I never really thought about it, Professor,” he said, truthfully.
> 
> “You’re a fast learner,” Ashworth went on, “and a natural leader. You’re remarkably selfless and you enjoy helping people. I think you’re perfectly suited for it.”
> 
> Harry’s mind was racing, mostly through memories of practicing with the D.A. Of Hermione’s face when she first saw the form of her Patronus. Of the astounded gasps when Ginny cast a perfect Reducto. Of Ron’s delighted glee when he actually beat Hermione in a duel. Of Luna declaring, “I liked the D.A. It was almost like having friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a really short chapter but I hope you like it anyway!

“Mr Potter, do come in,” Ashworth opened the door wider and welcomed Harry into his office. Harry walked in, taking in the room around him.

It was easy to tell Ashworth was incredibly proud of being a Gryffindor. He had a scarlet triangular tapestry with a lion on it hanging on the wall behind his desk, and the desk itself was home to a number of golden quills and a large, red chair made of velvet.

“Please, sit down,” Ashworth said, gesturing to the slightly smaller chair on the other side of the desk. Harry sat, running his fingers over the smooth velvet of the seat.

“So,” said Ashworth, with a small smile. “Time to discuss the future, it seems.”

“Right,” Harry replied, trying his best not to sigh.

“Professor McGonagall told me that in your O.W.L year you expressed an interest in being an Auror, is that still true?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose,” Harry shrugged.

“You suppose?” Ashworth raised an eyebrow.

“I reckon I’d be good at it,” replied Harry, suddenly feeling defensive. He knew his marks weren’t always perfect, but he _had_ gotten an O in his Defence O.W.L and even made it into N.E.W.T level Potions. McGonagall had had confidence in him, and she was not a woman easily impressed.

Ashworth chuckled slightly. “Harry—may I call you Harry? —I assure you I was not doubting your abilities. It merely sounds like you aren’t all that enthusiastic about it.”

Harry gave him a look. He thought for a moment that he’d be much more comfortable talking about this with McGonagall, but there was also something nice about having someone completely new. Though doubtlessly he knew who Harry was, he didn’t _know_ Harry, not the way McGonagall did. And though Harry respected McGonagall more than anyone else—probably even more than Dumbledore—there was a big part of him that was afraid of disappointing her.

“Honestly, I’m not,” he admitted. “It’s not that I don’t want to do it, it’s just…well, we’ve _just_ fought a war, haven’t we?”

“You’re not eager to jump right back into a combat situation,” Ashworth said, nodding.

“Right,” Harry agreed, and surprisingly, felt suddenly a lot lighter after getting that off his chest.

“Completely understandable, Harry,” reassured Ashworth with a smile. “What was it about being an Auror that first attracted you?”

Harry thought about this for a moment before answering slowly, “I want to help people. And,” he felt his heart clenching painfully as he thought of Tonks and Moody, “some of the best people I know were Aurors. They gave their lives to save others.”

Ashworth’s face was serious now, and he nodded, thoughtfully.

“Professor McGonagall told me a bit about a club you ran in your fifth year,” he said. “Dumbledore’s Army, was it?”

Harry couldn’t help but grin.

“Club is a nice word for it,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly allowed.”

Ashworth grinned as well.

“Ah, well, I think we can gloss over that now. Can you tell me more about it?”

Harry shrugged. “There isn’t much to say. Umbridge refused to teach us properly and Voldemort was back, so we had to do something.”

“And you had an extensive knowledge of Defence Against the Dark Arts, as I understand it?”

Harry shifted slightly in his seat. He still wasn’t very comfortable saying he was in any way more advanced than his fellow students. He knew he could perform some spellwork better than most, but he hadn’t really done much for it.

“I had just been taught some spells early,” he said.

Ashworth shook his head, an amused expression on his face.

“Professor McGonagall told me you would be modest. You can perform a corporeal Patronus, can you not?”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed.

“And you taught most—if not all—of Dumbledore’s Army to do the same?”

“I—yes.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy what, sir?”

“Did you enjoy the meetings? With Dumbledore’s Army?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, immediately. “It was great. We had loads of fun, and everyone seemed to learn really fast.”

Ashworth was giving him a knowing smile.

“Is that something you think you might like to pursue?”

“Er…what exactly, sir?” Harry asked, confused.

“Teaching.”

Harry stared at him.

“I, er, I never really thought about it, Professor,” he said, truthfully.

“You’re a fast learner,” Ashworth went on, “and a natural leader. You’re remarkably selfless and you enjoy helping people. I think you’re perfectly suited for it.”

Harry’s mind was racing, mostly through memories of practicing with the D.A. Of Hermione’s face when she first saw the form of her Patronus. Of the astounded gasps when Ginny cast a perfect _Reducto._ Of Ron’s delighted glee when he actually beat Hermione in a duel. Of Luna declaring, _“I liked the D.A. It was almost like having friends.”_

“I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, astounded.

Ashworth chuckled warmly. “It took me getting a shattered knee after years of Quidditch to realize I was meant to be a teacher. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“Could I apprentice for it then? For teaching?” Harry asked, amazed at how he suddenly much happier about the remainder of this year.

“Absolutely,” Ashworth confirmed. “I’ll mentor you myself. I’d like for you to also train with Waya some, there is a lot you could learn from him.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Harry, genuinely. Ashworth gave him a smile and stood up, causing Harry to follow suit.

“Not at all, Harry. Believe it or not, this was one of my shorter meetings.” He reached out his hand for Harry to shake.

“Have you met with Hermione yet?” Harry asked, shaking his head. When Ashworth shook his head, Harry grinned. “Good luck with that, sir.”

Ashworth barked out a laugh. “Have a good night, Harry.”

“You too, Professor.” Harry gave him one last smile and left his office, feeling lighter than he had since he first entered the castle this year.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not an eye for an eye, Draco,” she said, sharply. “Just because I told you doesn’t mean you have to. You don’t owe me anything.”
> 
> “Why?” Draco croaked. “Why did you tell me?”
> 
> Violet gave a little sigh.
> 
> “We can’t help how we’re raised, Draco. We believe what our parents tell us. You were raised to think all Muggles were inferior to wizards in every way. Nothing challenged that perception. My parents would have raised me the exact same way if it hadn’t been for Laurel. They were forced to face the truth and in that, they were lucky and so was I. Just because you weren’t doesn’t make you a bad person.”
> 
> Draco stared at her, and suddenly he felt oddly touched. Violet didn’t need to give him any explanation. Quite frankly, he didn’t even deserve one. And yet, she had trusted him—a Death Eater—enough to tell him that her little sister was a Squib. She didn’t think him a bad person—which was more than he could say for most people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH guys I love this chapter it was so fun to write; OH HEY by the way, look at these amazing character sketches Maya did for me of Violet and Draco! You can find her on Tumblr @wingedcorgi ! She's awesome and her art is incredible!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156742359@N04/31002762668/in/dateposted-public/)

 

When Draco entered the eighth year common room, he was glad that it was noticeably unoccupied by Gryffindors. Other than a few Ravenclaws sitting at one of the tables near the staircases, the room was mostly empty. The Hufflepuff Bones girl was curled up in an armchair, asleep, and Abbott was in a chair next to her, her nose in a book.

Draco looked over to the windowseat, where the few remaining Slytherins had taken to hiding, and saw Violet Foxblade sitting there, cross-legged, with an open book resting on her legs. Thinking of their last Defence class, he walked over to join her.

“Mind if I sit here?” Draco asked, gesturing to the windowseat.

Violet looked up at him and her hazel eyes softened warmly. “Go ahead.”

Draco sat down delicately next to her, placing his bag beside him.

“What are you reading?” he asked, nodding towards the book in her lap.

“Oh, this?” Violet sighed, picking up the book and closing it. “It’s my Muggle Studies textbook. I’m not really paying attention though.”

“You take Muggle Studies?” Draco asked, astonished. She was certainly an intriguing Slytherin, that was for sure.

“Yeah,” she sighed, shoving the book into her bag. “The new professor is quite good, but she assigns an Abraxan-load of homework.”

Draco just nodded, unsure what to say.

“How are you?” she asked. “Classes go alright?”

Draco didn’t really want to discuss today’s classes, which had included a Transfigurations class where he made absolutely no progress and a Potions class where he had done all the work and the credit had once again gone to Potter, so he merely shrugged.

“Listen, Violet, I don’t mean to pry, but…” he paused, not quite knowing how to continue.

He had never really had friends, not in the traditional way. Crabbe and Goyle weren’t exactly the kind of friends one could talk to, and Draco had never told them much about himself. The closest he had had to a confidant was Pansy, and he was very careful about how he spoke to her as well, because she couldn’t always be trusted either.

There was absolutely no reason for Violet to trust him and there was no reason for him to attempt to comfort her, but the image of the boggart as a bleeding girl—one who looked so much like Violet—had consumed him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Violet, this girl that he had shared a House with for eight years and yet knew absolutely nothing about.

“You want to know about my boggart,” Violet said, shrewdly.

Draco looked at her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She’s not really dead.” Her face was calm, but her voice was oddly quiet.

“Who is she?” Draco asked, finding that his voice had lowered as well.

“My sister, Laurel,” Violet provided, easily.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Draco said, honestly.

“She’s fifteen,” Violet said, slowly.

Draco looked at her, curiously.

“Is she not at Hogwarts?”

Violet looked at him for a moment, as if appraising him.

“No,” she said, cautiously. “She’s a Squib.”

Draco stared at her. Without a doubt, Violet Foxblade had to be the strangest person Draco had ever met. A Slytherin, who came from an old pureblood family, who had remained quiet and invisible for most of her Hogwarts career, who had fought _against_ the Death Eaters during the Battle of Hogwarts, who was fiercely defensive of her fellow Slytherins, who took Muggle Studies, who had a _Squib_ for a sister?

“Are you alright, Draco?” Violet said, coolly, watching Draco try and arrange his face into a neutral expression.

“I’m sorry, it just—”

“Surprised you, I know,” nodded Violet, sagely. “Yes, my parents were rather surprised themselves. But she’s quite brilliant, you know. She’s already finished Muggle school and she’s only fifteen. That’s much earlier than normal.”

She spoke with a fierce sort of affection in her voice and Draco thought inexplicably of his mother.

“Are your parents—?” Draco trailed off, not quite sure how to phrase it.

“Yeah, they are,” Violet replied, seemingly understanding exactly what Draco meant. “They used to be way more into that ‘pureblood is better’ stuff, but after Laurel, they sort of had to reanalyse everything they believed in. She changed everything.”

She had a soft look on her face and Draco almost envied her for a moment, wondering what it was like to love someone so much.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked, suddenly. “I’m a Death Eater.”

To his disbelief, Violet rolled her eyes.

“You  _were_ a Death Eater. Barely. Are you saying I shouldn’t be telling you?”

“Well, no, I just…” Draco thought about this. “I just can’t believe you’re trusting me with this.”

Violet offered him a sad smile.

“Well, you did sort of save me in Defence. And your boggart wasn’t much better.”

“Ah,” Draco murmured, thinking of his father and feeling a shudder go down his spine.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to explain.”

“But you told me—” Draco began, and Violet was quick to cut him off.

“It’s not an eye for an eye, Draco,” she said, sharply. “Just because I told you doesn’t mean you have to. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Why?” Draco croaked. “Why did you tell me?”

Violet gave a little sigh.

“We can’t help how we’re raised, Draco. We believe what our parents tell us. You were raised to think all Muggles were inferior to wizards in every way. Nothing challenged that perception. My parents would have raised me the exact same way if it hadn’t been for Laurel. They were forced to face the truth and in that, they were lucky and so was I. Just because you weren’t doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Draco stared at her, and suddenly he felt oddly touched. Violet didn’t need to give him any explanation. Quite frankly, he didn’t even deserve one. And yet, she had trusted him—a Death Eater—enough to tell him that her little sister was a Squib. She didn’t think him a bad person—which was more than he could say for most people.

“Thank you,” he said softly and she smiled at him in response.

A thought occurred to him then and he paused before voicing it.

“Do you think,” he kept his voice low, even though he knew no one was listening. “you could maybe tell me some of what you learn in your Muggle Studies class?”

Violet flashed him a wide grin.

*

Draco was sitting in McGonagall’s office once again, feeling mildly uncomfortable with both Snape and Dumbledore’s eyes on him. He was already nervous enough to hear what McGonagall had to say about his possible wandlore apprenticeship, and having the two former headmasters stare down at him was not helpful.

Thankfully, McGonagall didn’t keep him waiting long.

“Mr Malfoy, thank you for joining me.” She said, as she swept into the office in her long black robes.

Automatically, he stood when she entered, but she quickly waved at him and he sat right back down. She took the seat behind the desk and he faced her, glad to have something to focus on other than Dumbledore and Snape’s portraits.

“Tomorrow, the bulletin board in the eighth year common room will announce the names of every student’s mentor, the weekly times they will meet, and the classroom in which they will have their sessions. Now, because wandlore is a heavily protected magic, it would be best if the other students did not know what you were studying. You may, of course, tell one or two of your most trusted friends, but please make sure they keep it quiet. It would attract unwanted attention.”

Draco nodded along. It wasn’t like he had anyone he wanted to tell anyway.

“So, I thought instead, I would have it announce me as your mentor,” McGonagall continued. “If anyone asks, you can tell them you’re undertaking a Transfiguration apprenticeship. I will, of course, go along with this story.”

She paused to let him absorb the information, and Draco jumped at the chance to ask her what he was dying to know.

“Does that mean someone agreed to mentor me?” he asked, trying to hide the anticipation in his voice.

McGonagall gave him a small smile. “Of course. I daresay you will have one of the most experienced mentors of all; Garrick Ollivander himself has agreed to oversee your apprenticeship.”

Draco stared at her, disbelievingly. There was no way that was possible. Ollivander? _The_ Ollivander? As in, the Ollivander that was locked up and tortured in his family’s dungeon?

“I…but he—why?” Draco managed to stumble out. If his mother were here, she would be horrified at all his stuttering.

McGonagall just raised an eyebrow at him. “I suppose you will have to ask him that yourself, Mr Malfoy.”

At his overwhelmed expression, she softened slightly. “He was quite eager when he heard it was you I wanted him to instruct. Believed there was no one better to pass on the family business to.”

Draco stared at her, trying to find some way to make sense of it all, to find a logical explanation. It was true that it wasn’t Draco himself who locked Ollivander in the Malfoy dungeons, but he had been responsible for bringing food down to the prisoners and he hadn’t released them either.

The Lovegood girl had been there too, and Dean Thomas, and the goblin. Lovegood had been far too polite to him—friendly, even, at times. Ollivander had been a tired sort of polite as well, while Thomas had remained mostly silent, staying in the corner of the dungeons and not even looking at Draco.

The goblin had been the only adversarial one and that had stopped as soon as Draco withdrew his wand in silent threat, and was replaced by ugly glares. Draco had secretly been glad he didn’t have to curse him.

He didn’t like cursing people without wands. He was taught proper duelling techniques growing up, taught its importance in ancient pureblood tradition. Attacking someone who didn’t have a wand to defend themselves didn’t feel _right_. When he had been forced to do it, he’d tried to pretend he was fine with it. He would talk himself down, telling himself he was being a self-righteous Gryffindor and to just get it over with.

He’d never stopped hating it, though, so any time he could avoid it, he did. He’d imagined it would be so much worse cursing someone without a wand who was also as kind to him as Lovegood was.

He remembered one time he had come down to bring them all food and discovered that Bellatrix had been there, ‘playing’ with them. Thomas had been on the ground, not bleeding from anywhere but his whole body shaking, clearly having suffered the Cruciatus, one of Auntie Bella’s favourites. The goblin and Ollivander had both seemed more afraid that grievously harmed, but Lovegood had looked like she had been torn apart.

She had had great gashes in her face, her neck, her chest. She’d seemed to be bleeding from _everywhere_ , her clothes staining red at an alarmingly rapid pace. Ollivander had been trying to help, fruitlessly, pushing rags onto wounds in an effort to stop the blood, but it had been coming from too many places.

Draco had acted without thinking, his wand practically flying as he cast healing spell after healing spell. By the time he was done, Luna had retained a few scars but looked monumentally better, no longer bleeding.

“Thank you, Draco,” she had said, softly, and reached out to put her palm against Draco’s cheek. Draco had just stared at her, disbelievingly, the same way everyone else seemed to be staring at _him,_ before turning tail and fleeing the dungeon quicker than he came.

He’d been a coward, like he always was. He’d spent his whole life talking big, and it turned out he hated everything he’d bragged about—hated the Dark Arts, hated performing Unforgivable Curses, hated hurting people.

He could’ve saved them all, could’ve set them all free—Lovegood, Thomas, the goblin, Ollivander. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d just followed orders like a scared little boy. And then Potter had showed up and managed to orchestrate an escape for all of them. He’d been _wandless,_ and he still saved the day.

As usual.

Draco had had the chance to do something good, and characteristically, he had failed to do so. He saw absolutely no reason why Ollivander would want anything to do with him.


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Malfoy!” he said, walking up to him, and Malfoy’s head snapped up so quickly, Harry practically felt it in his own neck.
> 
> “Potter,” he responded, coolly, in contrast to his startled reaction.
> 
> “How come you’re doing an apprenticeship with McGonagall?” he asked, and suddenly he felt Hermione’s hand grip his forearm.
> 
> “Harry, leave it,” she warned in an undertone, but Harry ignored her. He wasn’t picking a fight; he was being perfectly well-mannered. He just wanted to know.
> 
> Malfoy raised a pale eyebrow at him.
> 
> “And what business is that of yours?” he asked, his voice level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh, I know this is late, sorry about that. Been traveling a lot lately and I also managed to catch a cold so I'm just a whole ass mess rn. Will try my best to have the next chapter up in a week tho :)

Harry awoke to find Ron and Hermione’s blurry faces peering over him in his bed. He instantly scrambled to sit up and reached around blindly for his glasses.

Once he had shoved them onto his face, he exclaimed, “what?”

“Our apprenticeship information is out,” Hermione replied, immediately. “Everyone’s mentors are listed on the bulletin board.”

“Oh, was that today?” Harry said, tossing his covers aside and getting out of bed. Truth be told, he had sort of forgotten about the apprenticeships since his meeting with Ashworth. It was incredible how calm he felt after that meeting, especially considering how much he had been agonizing over it before.

“ _Yes,_ it was today,” said Hermione, an air of impatience in her tone. “And we were just wondering when you had planned on telling us you decided you weren’t planning on apprenticing to be an Auror anymore.”

Harry, who had been midway through pulling his robes on, paused and stared at them. Hermione had her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised, and Ron just looked sort of expectant, waiting for him to respond.

He sighed, and fastened his robes.

“I forgot to tell you,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, mate,” Ron was quick to chime in. “We were just confused is all.”

“Let’s go down together, yeah?” Harry suggested. “I’ll tell you everything at breakfast.”

At the mention of breakfast, Ron was instantly agreeable, and the two boys turned to Hermione for her approval. Her stern posture dissipated.

“Oh, fine. I expect a thorough explanation, though.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

The three of them ambled down the stairs from the boys’ dormitory together to where what looked like all the eighth years were crowded around the bulletin board.

Harry craned to get a good look at the board. Three columns had been drawn, with the far left side showing the name of the mentor, the middle the names of the students, and the right the days, times, and locations of the meetings. Harry was surprised to see that some mentors had more than one student assigned to them.

“Does that mean they won’t be individual sessions?” Harry asked, looking towards Hermione for answers.

As usual, she had them.

“Yes, it’ll sort of be like a group apprenticeship. There’s not allowed to be more than three students per mentor, to make sure everyone gets the close attention and instruction they need.” She sounded like she repeated that word for word from Professor McGonagall.

Harry scanned the list until he saw his own name.

_Professor Lachlan Ashworth – Harry Potter – Mondays at 4:30 pm, Thursdays at 1:45 pm; Professor Ashworth’s office_

He sighed a little in relief that he was the only student Ashworth was mentoring. He supposed it was a little bit selfish, but he rather looked forward to learning one-on-one from Ashworth, and Waya, too.

Again, he thought of Remus, and their one-on-one sessions back in third year, where he taught Harry how to cast a Patronus.

In an attempt to shake himself of his thoughts, he began to look for Ron and Hermione’s names on the board. He found Ron’s together with Seamus and Michael Corner, apprenticing under Gawain Robards.

“Robards!” Harry exclaimed. “That’s brilliant, Ron, he was Head Auror!”

Ron grinned widely and Harry clapped him on the shoulder hard, filled with pride and excitement for his best friend.

Hermione—who had confided in Harry and Ron that she had chosen to apprentice to become an Unspeakable, something she was not allowed to tell anyone else and had firmly told them they were not to breathe a word about—shared her mentor, Evadne Moreau, with Oliver Rivers, whose name Harry didn’t recognize at all, but who Hermione told him was a Ravenclaw.

Curiously, Harry continued scanning the board. He saw some familiar names in the column of mentors, namely Tiberius Ogden—who had been in the Wizengamot—and Gwenog Jones, former captain of the Holyhead Harpies. Dean Thomas and Alice Runcorn were the names in her row, and Harry made a mental note to ask Dean more about that later. Neville and Justin Finch-Fletchley were both apprenticing with Professor Sprout, which came as no surprise, and Ernie Macmillan, Harry noticed with a healthy amount of disappointment, was apprenticing under Remington Armistead, the associate editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet.

It was when he reached McGonagall’s name that he paused.

_Headmistress Minerva McGonagall – Draco Malfoy – Mondays at 5 pm, Wednesdays at 9 pm, Thursdays at 11 am; location to be announced_

Harry hadn’t thought McGonagall would be doing any apprenticeships. Wasn’t she far too busy as Headmistress already? And what exactly was Malfoy apprenticing for anyway? He looked among the crowd of students around the board for Malfoy, but his pale hair was nowhere to be seen. He cast his glance to the common room at large and finally spotted Malfoy on the windowseat, mid-conversation with the Slytherin girl who’d had the terrible boggart—Fox-something, her name was.

Without even thinking, Harry walked over to them, barely aware of Ron and Hermione following him.

“Malfoy!” he said, walking up to him, and Malfoy’s head snapped up so quickly, Harry practically felt it in his own neck.

“Potter,” he responded, coolly, in contrast to his startled reaction.

“How come you’re doing an apprenticeship with McGonagall?” he asked, and suddenly he felt Hermione’s hand grip his forearm.

“Harry, leave it,” she warned in an undertone, but Harry ignored her. He wasn’t picking a fight; he was being perfectly well-mannered. He just wanted to _know._

Malfoy raised a pale eyebrow at him.

“And what business is that of yours?” he asked, his voice level.

“Why aren’t you doing a Potions apprenticeship?” Harry continued.

“Why should I?” Malfoy shot back. Harry was baffled.

“You were Snape’s golden child. Everyone knew you were best at Potions.” After a slight cough from behind him, he added, “Besides Hermione.”

Malfoy’s grey eyes narrowed dangerously.

“My sincere _apologies,_ Potter, I hadn’t thought about how _invested_ you were in my career prospects. I’ll make sure to consult you next time I make any decisions regarding _my_ life, shall I?” He sneered, and Harry stepped backwards in surprise. For Malfoy, this was relatively tame, but for the new Malfoy, the one Harry had been interacting with in Potions class since the beginning of term, this was a change. Malfoy had been—dare he say it— _polite;_ even the little jibes he made at Harry’s potion-making skills had been gentle and…well, _funny._

Now, it was like he had suddenly snapped back to pre-war Malfoy. Harry didn’t quite know how to react. Lucky for him, he didn’t have to.

“Git,” Ron sneered, stepping forward and putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, Harry.”

Harry stayed rooted to the ground, looking at Malfoy, trying to figure him out.

Malfoy scowled at him. “If you’re desperate to know, Potter, I’m apprenticing in Transfiguration and there’s no one more skilled in the field than Minerva McGonagall. Next time you feel the need to poke your nose into other people’s business, kindly do so on your own time and leave me out of it.”

Harry returned his glare and let Ron and Hermione lead him away. Maybe Malfoy hadn’t changed at all; maybe he was the same old prat he always was.

* 

“Alright, we’re at breakfast, Harry, get on with it,” Hermione said, all business, while Ron loaded bacon onto his plate next to her.

“Right,” he said, “So I met with Ashworth…”

He told them about their meeting, about how Ashworth helped him figure out that the aspect of the Auror job that was attracting him was the chance to help people, and how teaching was just another way of doing that, a way that Harry felt far more comfortable with and excited about. When he finished, Hermione’s eyes were sparkling.

“ _Wow!_ Harry, that’s wonderful! I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that—you were amazing with the D.A., of _course_ you’d be a brilliant professor!”

Harry felt himself blushing at her praise, and he couldn’t help but grin. Still, he looked towards Ron, rather nervously.

“This alright with you, mate?” he asked.

“’Course,” said Ron, easily. “Auror training won’t be as fun without you there, but you sound really chuffed about this. ‘Mione’s right, too, you know. You’d be a good professor. You were a good one in fifth year.”

Harry was touched.

“Thanks, Ron,” he said, genuinely. “You too, Hermione.”

He was feeling entirely too fond of his two best friends at the moment to bring up what was bothering him. He knew that if he did, they’d just tell him off, but he couldn’t help but wonder—what was going on with Malfoy?

He looked over to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was there, his attention-seeking hair hidden under his hood and Harry felt something nagging at him. A Transfiguration apprentice just didn’t make any sense. He supposed Malfoy might be good at it—he had never really noticed how Malfoy did in his classes, he was always up to something more troublesome that took up Harry’s attention—but it was just so out of nowhere. Potions made sense. Even Quidditch would make more sense. But Transfiguration?

Harry wondered if he could ask McGonagall about it. If she’d tell him anything, maybe that it was a cover for something, perhaps something to do with the terms of Malfoy’s probation. That would make sense. That would also explain why Malfoy had been so tetchy when Harry had asked about it.

“Harry?  _Harry!_ ” It was only when Hermione started snapping her fingers in front of Harry’s face that he refocused in on the present.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling sheepishly at her. “Got distracted.”

Hermione glanced from Harry to the Slytherin table and back again with a worried expression.

“Don’t start,” she said, warningly.

“Start what?” said Harry, innocently.

“You know exactly what. I know Malfoy’s a prat, but he’s been keeping his head down this year. Just leave it alone.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” Harry exclaimed, defensively, looking to Ron for backup. Ron just shrugged.

“You know how you get when it comes to Malfoy,” he said, simply, like that explained everything. Harry was tempted to respond that no, he didn’t know how he got when it came to Malfoy, but Hermione’s expression kept him at bay.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I wasn’t even going to say anything.”

Of course, he very much _was_ going to say something, but Hermione and Ron didn’t need to know that.

He kept a closer eye on Malfoy that day, trying to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary about him. It was surprisingly hard to do, since Malfoy was clearly trying to keep himself as invisible as possible. It reminded Harry unnervingly of their sixth year—the first time Malfoy seemed to want to avoid attention.

But this time, Harry didn’t find Malfoy skulking around in corridors or crying in bathrooms. In fact, the only thing was unusual was that he seemed to be struggling in his classes far more than usual. Malfoy had always been one of the top students, usually only narrowly edged out from the top by Hermione. But in Transfiguration, he was one of the only ones who hadn’t been able to fully transfigure his head into that of a big cat.

Instead of looking angry, like Harry would have expected, Malfoy just sighed and unclenched his jaw, muttering to himself under his breath.

At lunch, his resolve broke and he brought it up to Ron and Hermione.

Ron just gave him a resigned look and emitted a grumble that sounded suspiciously like “I told you so” and Hermione pursed her lips at him.

“Harry, his father is in Azkaban and his mother is on house arrest. They’ve had Aurors in and out of their house all summer. Practically none of his friends returned to Hogwarts this year. Maybe schoolwork isn’t the first thing on his mind right now.”

Harry stared at her, feeling incredibly stupid. How had he not thought of that? He hadn’t even thought about what would happen to the Manor after the war. It had been Voldemort’s headquarters, of course the Aurors would want to examine it. Harry thought of Narcissa—beautiful and glamorous—Narcissa who had saved his life in the Forest, who had lied right to Voldemort’s face in order to save her son.

He wasn’t going to start feeling any empathy for Lucius Malfoy any time soon, but with a glance over at the Slytherin table, he felt slightly ashamed for having assumed Malfoy was up to something again.


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t know you and Nott were so close,” Potter continued.
> 
> Draco felt his face flush, as vivid memories of fifth year rushed at him full-force—Theo and him arriving back into the dormitories after a late night Slytherin party, giddy from stolen Firewhisky, laughing for the first time in what felt like months, the feeling of Theo’s warm body pressed against him as they slouched by the door, the hesitant press of soft lips against his…
> 
> “Alright, students! Bottle up your potions and mark them with your names before arranging them in the stands! Make sure you know when to come in and check on them!”
> 
> Draco’s face was burning as he poured the potion into a glass bottle and stoppered it.
> 
> “Are you alright, Malfoy?” Potter inquired, looking at him with a curious expression.
> 
> “Yes.” He snapped, shoving the bottle into Potter’s hands. “You can manage labelling this with our names, can’t you? Wonderful.”
> 
> Without waiting for a reply, Draco grabbed his book bag and fled the room.

As soon as Slughorn announced the name of the potion they were brewing, Draco’s heart sank. The old professor spoke with such excitement and vigour, but all Draco could think about was how much time it was going to take from him.

Potter went off to fetch the ingredients, as had become their routine, while Draco stared at the instructions on the page before him. It was by far the most complicated potion they had been assigned so far. While that wasn’t enough to intimidate Draco, the fact that they were meant to regularly check in on the potion to add ingredients at specific times was enough to thoroughly exasperate him.

Everyone was supposed to take turns with their partner to check up on the potion. Draco, however, certainly didn’t trust Potter to do more than hand him ingredients. He even managed to mess that up frequently enough.

“Here,” Potter returned, dumping an armful of supplies onto the table. Draco massaged his temple with an index finger.

“Mind yourself, Potter,” he snapped. “Some of these are delicate.”

“Sorry,” Potter just grinned lazily and Draco felt his irritation rising. Of course Potter didn’t care. He would just sit there and do nothing and then get all the credit when the potion turned out perfectly. As usual.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Draco sniffed, and carefully set aside the dragonfly wings out of Potter’s reach.

Potter gave him a funny look, which Draco ignored in favour of uncapping the jar of dragon claws. He peered inside, trying to ignore the unholy stench that arose as soon as he removed the lid. With a sigh, he recapped it and pressed it to Potter’s chest.

“Wrong dragon,” he said. “We need a Czech Snakesnout’s claws, not a Chinese Fireball.”

“What’s the difference?”

Draco looked at him, hoping his glare was enough to make Potter feel uncomfortable. It probably wasn’t. This _was_ , after all, the boy who had faced down the Dark Lord.

“Tell me, Potter, _how_ did you manage to get into N.E.W.T. level Potions again? Did you bribe the O.W.L. test taker? Promise her a signed photograph or something?”

Potter scowled at him, finally grabbing the jar and heading back to the supply closet.

Draco poured half of the pomegranate juice into their cauldron and lifted his wand before thinking twice and setting it down. As humiliating as it was, he’d rather ask Potter to start the fire than risk their potion being messed up because of his dysfunctional wand. When Potter returned with the correct dragon claws, Draco said, as casually as he could, “Light the fire, would you, Potter?”

Potter looked at him as he took his seat, his green eyes bright and mischievous.

“Why can’t you?”

Draco met his eyes with a dead look.

“I do all of the work in this class and you can’t be bothered to cast an _Incendio_?”

Potter had the decency to look down in shame and withdrew his famous wand to cast the spell. Draco reached out for the dragon claws and transported them to a bowl where he could properly crush and powder them. Casting an eye at the rest of the ingredients on the table, he added, “You can take the morning dew back. It doesn’t need to be added for another week.”

“Another week?” Potter asked, and Draco sighed. Honestly, was interacting with Potter _always_ this frustrating? No wonder Granger was so tightly wound; if Draco had to spend half his life explaining everything to Potter, he would be too.

“ _Yes,_ Potter, were you not listening? This potion takes a month to complete, which means we will have to periodically be checking in on it and adding ingredients twice a week. By ‘we,’ of course I mean me, because as previously mentioned, I do all the work in the class while you sit there and ask me inane questions like ‘ _what’s the difference between a Czech Snakesnout’s claws and a Chinese Fireball’s_?’” It all came spilling out of Draco without him even realizing. When he drew in a sharp breath at the end of his rant, he could feel Potter’s eyes boring into his skull. He forced himself to keep his gaze focused on his work, deftly crushing the claws into a fine yellow powder.

Potter wordlessly picked up the offending glass bottle and stalked off again.

Draco let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He didn’t know what it was about Potter that made him so intimidating, but it frustrated him to no end that the boy had that hold over him. He’d known Potter since they were _eleven,_ surely he would be used to his presence by now?

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?” Potter spoke as soon as he returned to the table. Draco chose not to look at him—always the safer option.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, carefully pouring three drops of pixie juice over the powdered dragon claws and watching as the mixture sizzled loudly.

“Come on,” continued Potter. “You were being all…civil before.”

Draco couldn’t help but smirk. Civil? Barely restraining himself from calling Potter an imbecile every time he messed up a basic ingredient wasn’t exactly civil, was it?

“If it’s my _civility_ you’re after, I’m afraid you’ll have to get in line,” Draco responded, tartly.

“Merlin, Malfoy, you really have to make everything difficult, don’t you?” Potter shot at him and finally Draco turned and met his eyes.

“ _I_ make everything difficult, Potter? Me? Tell me what potion we’re making. Go on,” Draco slammed his textbook shut as Potter’s eyes moved to it. “That’s what I thought. Tell me the difference between pomegranate juice and lavender water as a base. The use of ginger root in potion making. How to withdraw a lionfish spine without spilling its venom. Can’t answer any, can you? But that’s fine, because _Malfoy will do all the work_ and you’ll sit back and watch and win yourself twenty points for Gryffindor for simply _breathing_ near the potion.”

“Is that it?” Potter said, quietly. “You’re mad because Slughorn keeps giving me all the credit for the potions?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Potter, if I got angry every time you got the credit for other people’s work I would have exploded by now.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“Right now, you are my problem. Pass the horned thimbleweed.”

Potter obligingly handed over the thimbleweed, but didn’t seem to be as finished with the conversation as Draco was.

“Look, I get it, you think I’m useless at Potions. I probably am. But you don’t really seem to want my help anyway, so make up your mind, do you want me to do my fair share of the work or not?” Potter’s arms were crossed, but he didn’t look too upset. His eyebrows were furrowed and his stupid hair was hanging in his face, but he lacked that fiery glint in his eyes that meant he was really incensed.

“If you were capable of actually doing the work, I’d say yes, but seeing as your potion-making skills are worse than that of a first year, I think I’ll handle our potions by myself.”

“You really are a git, Malfoy, you know that?”

“Don’t forget Death Eater,” Draco retorted, without thinking.

Potter stared at him, eyes wide.

“What did you just say?” he asked, quietly.

Draco met his gaze, glaring directly into Potter’s green eyes.

“Well, you Gryffindors seem to be picking up the habit of calling every Slytherin you see a Death Eater. Might as well use it on the only one of us that actually was.”

A look of realization crossed Potter’s face, one that Draco did not like at all, because it was accompanied with something that looked a lot like shame.

“This is about what happened the other day with Seamus and Nott.”

Draco clenched his jaw and returned his attention to their potion, which was becoming a bright lime green colour now, and smelled pleasantly citrusy.

“Seamus shouldn’t have said that,” Potter continued, sounding abashed. “He was out of line.”

“You didn’t seem to think so at the time,” responded Draco.

Potter blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

 _Merlin,_ he really was slow about everything.

“I _mean,_ ” Draco said, sharply. “You didn’t say anything, did you? Just let him prattle on about Theo’s father, when he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Didn’t matter to you, did it? Theo might as well have been a Death Eater in your eyes.”

He didn’t know if it was the effect of the ginger root coming out in the fumes of the potion or just another sign he was losing his mind, but Draco felt the words come out of him without permission, like he had no control over what he was saying.

He bit his tongue, in an effort to keep anything else from spilling out.

Potter was staring at him.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think that, you know.” He said. “Well—I did think Nott’s father was a Death Eater at first, but after Greengrass said all that, I asked Hermione and she said that the Notts were never associated with Voldemort so…” he trailed off rather nonsensically and Draco couldn’t help but snort. Of course he had to run it by Granger, his walking encyclopaedia.

“I didn’t know you and Nott were so close,” Potter continued.

Draco felt his face flush, as vivid memories of fifth year rushed at him full-force—Theo and him arriving back into the dormitories after a late night Slytherin party, giddy from stolen Firewhisky, laughing for the first time in what felt like months, the feeling of Theo’s warm body pressed against him as they slouched by the door, the hesitant press of soft lips against his…

“Alright, students! Bottle up your potions and mark them with your names before arranging them in the stands! Make sure you know when to come in and check on them!”

Draco’s face was burning as he poured the potion into a glass bottle and stoppered it.

“Are you alright, Malfoy?” Potter inquired, looking at him with a curious expression.

“Yes.” He snapped, shoving the bottle into Potter’s hands. “You can manage labelling this with our names, can’t you? Wonderful.”

Without waiting for a reply, Draco grabbed his book bag and fled the room.


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron looked at him, a surprised expression on his face.
> 
> “Are you saying you agree with Malfoy? Malfoy?”
> 
> “He was right,” Harry admitted. “He usually isn’t, but this time he was. Remember all the times Malfoy made fun of my parents being dead? We didn’t think it was okay when he did it, why is it okay when Seamus does it to Nott?”
> 
> That shut Ron up rather promptly.
> 
> “You’re right, Harry,” Hermione said with a slight sigh. “Malfoy’s right. I didn’t know he and Nott were friends, though, to be honest.”
> 
> “Me neither,” said Harry. “He was very defensive of him, too. And he called him Theo.”
> 
> At this, Hermione raised her eyebrows.
> 
> “Well, you didn’t really expect him to call him Nott, did you?”
> 
> Harry didn’t want to admit that yes, he had sort of expected that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a few days late; I totally forgot to post it! My bad :P Hope you enjoy <3

“How did you get it to that perfect lime green colour? Sophie and I did everything right, but it was still only a yellowish green by the time we were done. Harry? Harry!”

Hermione’s fingers suddenly appeared right in front of Harry’s face, snapping for his attention. He blinked and looked over at Hermione, who had an expectant expression on her face.

“Oh, er…sorry, I don’t really know,” he admitted, sheepishly, knowing she was about to scold him for his confession. “Malfoy does most of the work, I just sort of…hand him things.”

He was half-right: Hermione did have a disapproving look on her face, but when she spoke, she only said, “Well, it’s better than using the Prince’s book, I suppose. Still, Harry, you should at least be paying attention to what he’s doing. And that’s not really fair to Malfoy, either.”

“Since when do we care about what’s fair to Malfoy?” added Ron. Sophie, who had accompanied them on their walk up to Founder’s Tower, snorted, which made Ron grin happily. Hermione shot him a reprimanding look.

“How do you expect Harry’s going to pass his N.E.W.T.’s if he lets Malfoy do all the work for him and doesn’t learn anything this year?”

“Oh, bollocks, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Harry groaned.

Hermione looked rather pleased.

“At least ask him to explain,” she suggested. “Clearly he knows what he’s doing.”

She spoke the last sentence with a little bit of an edge in her voice, and Harry knew she was jealous that Malfoy had been able to get their potion to the exact lime green colour it was supposed to be and she hadn’t.

“Sure, I’ll just ask my pal Malfoy to tutor me in Potions, shall I?” Harry said, sarcastically, earning himself chuckles from Ron and Sophie.

“You said yourself he’s been better this year,” Hermione argued.

“Yeah, that was before Seamus mouthed off at Nott. Apparently they’re good friends or something, and now Malfoy thinks that we all think every Slytherin’s a Death Eater,” Harry explained.

“He can’t be mad about that!” cried Ron, defensively. “He bloody well _is_ a Death Eater!”

“Was.” Harry found himself unconsciously correcting.

“He has a point, Ron,” said Hermione, thoughtfully. “Nott wasn’t a Death Eater, nor was his father. Apparently, they were in France the whole duration of the war.”

“So he’s a coward,” Ron put in.

“Or maybe his dad just wanted to protect him,” chimed in Sophie, about whom Harry had almost forgotten.

“And being a coward and being a Death Eater aren’t the same thing,” Harry added, softly. Ron looked at him, a surprised expression on his face.

“Are you saying you agree with Malfoy? _Malfoy?_ ”

“He was right,” Harry admitted. “He usually isn’t, but this time he was. Remember all the times Malfoy made fun of my parents being dead? We didn’t think it was okay when he did it, why is it okay when Seamus does it to Nott?”

That shut Ron up rather promptly.

“You’re right, Harry,” Hermione said with a slight sigh. “Malfoy’s right. I didn’t know he and Nott were friends, though, to be honest.”

“Me neither,” said Harry. “He was very defensive of him, too. And he called him Theo.”

At this, Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“Well, you didn’t really expect him to call him Nott, did you?”

Harry didn’t want to admit that yes, he had sort of expected that.

“He called Crabbe and Goyle by their last names!” he said instead, defensively.

“Yes, well, Crabbe and Goyle weren’t exactly his friends, were they?” Hermione responded.

“More like minions,” Ron grumbled, causing Sophie to unsuccessfully cover up another snort.

Hermione looked like she was going to say something more, but was interrupted by the loud sound of the bricks of the entrance to the common room opening.

Dean and Seamus walked through, followed closely by an interested-looking Luna and a grinning Ginny.

“Ginny!” Ron cried. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you, dear brother, what’s it look like?” Ginny said, with just the slightest note of sarcasm in her voice.

“We were very curious to see the eighth year common room,” Luna supplied, smiling at them before taking a seat next to Hermione. Ginny had already made herself comfortable in a grey armchair next to Harry’s.

“What do you think, then?” Sophie asked, smiling at Luna.

“Oh, it’s lovely. Could do with some more colour, though. You know…” Luna launched into a long-winded explanation of how colour affected the soul, but Harry was distracted by Ginny reaching out and putting her hand on his on the arm of his chair.

He looked up to find her brown eyes on him.

“Can we talk?” she asked, quietly.

Ah. So here it was.

He nodded wordlessly and followed her as she got up from her chair and walked over to where the bulletin board was at the bottom of the staircase up to the boys’ dormitories.

“So,” she said, punctuating the word a little more forcefully than necessary.

“So,” Harry said, shuffling from foot to foot. “How are your classes going?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not really what I wanted to talk about, Harry.”

“Right,” said Harry, looking down and feeling stupid.

Ginny sighed. “Look, you can just say it, Harry. I know you don’t want to be together again.”

Harry’s eyes snapped back to her face.

“I didn’t say that.”

Ginny smiled softly and Harry’s heart ached in the sudden realization that she was right.

“You didn’t have to,” she replied. “You’re forgetting I know you.”

“I don’t—I didn’t—I’m—”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry,” Ginny interrupted his stammering. “I understand. We can’t expect things to go back to the way they were before the war. Nothing is the same.”

“I wish it was,” Harry admitted, quietly.

Ginny looked at him, and Harry could’ve sworn the expression she wore was pity.

“No, you don’t,” she said.

“I do care about you,” Harry said.

“I know you do. I care about you, too. But I’m tired of waiting. I spent years waiting. I don’t want to be that girl who waits around for someone. I’m more than that.”

“Of course you are,” Harry mumbled, pathetically. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like—”

“Stop, Harry,” Ginny put a hand up. “You didn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just…I don’t like this. I know you’ve been avoiding talking to me and it’s rubbish. You don’t have to feel like I’m going to break if you tell me you don’t want to be together.”

“I don’t think you’re going to break,” Harry automatically defended himself.

“Then why haven’t you told me yet?” Ginny challenged, her eyebrows raised.

Harry sighed. “I hadn’t really figured it out myself yet.”

Her expression softened.

“Oh, Harry,” she reached out and stroked his face gently with her hand. Harry knew she meant it as a gesture of kindness, but he couldn’t help feeling like it was rather condescending. “Being in love is different when the world is ending around you, isn’t it?”

Harry had never thought about it quite like that, but she was right. He remembered kissing Ginny in the Burrow before Fleur and Bill’s wedding, how everything else had just disappeared around them, how nothing mattered but her for those blissful few seconds. It wasn’t like that anymore. The war was over and for the first time, Harry didn’t feel his impending death looming over him. He didn’t need to escape into Ginny’s broad grin and sweet-smelling hair. He found he didn’t even want to.

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he said, honestly. “I just don’t think I can do this—us—right now.”

Entirely inappropriately to what he had just said, Ginny smiled warmly.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Realizing she was teasing, Harry allowed himself to grin.

“You’re as bad as Ron, you know.” He said and Ginny laughed and suddenly, he felt a lot lighter in his chest. “Come on, then, let’s get back to the others.”

They walked back to where the others were sitting with smiles on their faces, Harry finally feeling like everything was maybe going to be alright.


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt like he was lying to them. Like he was presenting himself in sheep’s clothing, an innocent boy who just got caught up in a bad situation. He wasn’t a prisoner in that house, not really, no matter how much he had felt like he was. He still got to lie down in a warm bed at night, even if he didn’t actually sleep when in it. He had done horrific things throughout the war. Before the war.
> 
> Subconsciously, he rubbed at his left forearm, at the black mark seared deep into his flesh. He had tried to remove it this summer, using every spell he could think of until he had resorted to digging into his own skin with a kitchen knife. Polkey, one of the last remaining house elves, had found him and managed to pry the knife away from him. She had then immediately tried to punish herself using the knife, and Draco had had to yell at her to stop. He made her promise not to tell his mother and then had her make herself a cup of tea to calm down.
> 
> The Dark Mark had remained untouched, and all that he had done is add some more scars around it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the hardest chapters to write but also one of my favorites. I live for the Luna/Draco friendship <3

Draco wasn’t staring at Potter and the Weaslette, he really wasn’t. They just happened to be in his direct line of sight, laughing and smiling and _touching_. Draco scowled; did they really have to do this here? Couldn’t Potter just be decent and take her up to his dormitory? Just when Draco thought he might, the two of them simply walked back to their merry group of Gryffindors in the armchairs. Very well, then, at least they’d stop being nauseating in front of Draco. After all, he certainly didn’t want to have to see that; Potter was the last thing he wanted to think about at the moment.

In fact, he didn’t even realize he was still facing the armchairs until he made unmistakeable eye contact with Luna Lovegood. He quickly blinked and looked away, but he could feel her large eyes stay on him and he fidgeted on the window seat, uncomfortably.

He wished Violet was here. They were becoming rather fast friends, and she was very good at distracting him, usually with outraged rants about how she’d seen younger Slytherins being bullied or else with reviews of what had been covered in her most recent Muggle Studies class. Truthfully, Draco found the latter far more interesting, not that he’d ever admit it. He had been learning a lot from her. Muggles seemed to have their own kinds of magic, things they created that worked sort of like they had charms put on them. Violet tried to explain how they worked without magic, but it had been extremely complicated and Draco had barely been able to follow. He was sure he’d get it after a while.

Recently, she’d told him about the Great Muggle Wars. He’d heard about them before, but only in passing. He remembered a section in his old Botany book that had mentioned flowers as symbols of death and remembrance in reference to them. There had been two of them, both in the 20th century, and the facts she’d given him had left him in such disbelief that he had spent an entire night in the library’s Muggle Studies section, until he’d learned as much as he possibly could. He’d sat there, horrified at what he’d read, but also horrified that he hadn’t known. After that, he listened to every word Violet said about her classes, and almost always went to the library afterwards for further research.

“Hello, Draco,”

He looked up to find Luna Lovegood standing barely two feet away from him.

“Hello, Lovegood,” he replied, wondering what on earth she was doing there. Without an invitation, she sat down on the windowseat beside him, drawing her legs up and crossing them. She regarded him with a dreamy sort of smile.

“Have you been down to visit the herd of Thestrals?” she asked casually, as if the two of them were old friends. “The babies’ wings have finally grown in.”

Realizing she was expecting an answer, Draco managed a, “No, I haven’t found the time.”

Lovegood nodded, seriously. “Of course, I know your year is very busy with the apprenticeships. Have you begun yours yet? What are you apprenticing in?”

“Oh, er, Transfiguration,” Draco replied, still at a loss as to why she had decided to engage him in conversation. She looked at him and he resisted the urge to fidget uncomfortably under her stare. She didn’t seem to blink quite as often as most people.

“Ah, it must be a secret. That’s alright, I’ll go along with it. Transfiguration is a good cover,” she nodded again and then flashed him a smile. “I do hope it’s something you enjoy.”

Draco was taken aback. He didn’t understand how she could tell he wasn’t actually studying Transfiguration—he was, after all, a skilled Occlumens. Was she perhaps some kind of Seer? Would she answer him if he asked how she knew?

“Yes, it is,” he said, instead, quietly.

She seemed satisfied with the answer.

“That’s wonderful. It’s always important to do something you love, don’t you think?”

“What are you doing, Lovegood?” The question burst out of Draco like rushing water breaking a dam. “Why are you talking to me? Why are you being nice to me? You were a prisoner in my dungeons, Lovegood, my aunt _tortured_ you!”

The soft smile that played at Lovegood’s lips never left during his outburst. She didn’t even flinch.

“I remember the dungeons, Draco,” she said in that matter-of-fact way of hers. “I remember you always bringing us extra food and healing our wounds. You looked more scared than any of us, really. Sometimes it seemed like you were the real prisoner in that house.”

Draco stared at her, dumbfounded. First Violet, now Lovegood, he felt like he was in some sort of dream, where every one of his sins was being forgiven. It seemed like a free pass, like he was absolved.

And yet, he still found himself unable to sleep at night. Still woke up constantly from nightmares of all the horrible things he had done. Still felt his chest heavy and soiled with guilt.

Still hated himself with every fibre of his being.

He felt like he was lying to them. Like he was presenting himself in sheep’s clothing, an innocent boy who just got caught up in a bad situation. He wasn’t a prisoner in that house, not really, no matter how much he had felt like he was. He still got to lie down in a warm bed at night, even if he didn’t actually sleep when in it. He had done horrific things throughout the war. Before the war.

Subconsciously, he rubbed at his left forearm, at the black mark seared deep into his flesh. He had tried to remove it this summer, using every spell he could think of until he had resorted to digging into his own skin with a kitchen knife. Polkey, one of the last remaining house elves, had found him and managed to pry the knife away from him. She had then immediately tried to punish herself using the knife, and Draco had had to yell at her to stop. He made her promise not to tell his mother and then had her make herself a cup of tea to calm down.

The Dark Mark had remained untouched, and all that he had done is add some more scars around it.

“Seventh years are being advised to start thinking about apprenticeships, too.” Lovegood said, suddenly, breaking Draco out of his thoughts. She was staring at him with a knowing look in her eyes.

“That’s nice,” he said, pathetically, sharply withdrawing his fingers from his left forearm.

“I’ve decided I’m going to do magical art,” she continued. “I thought about Magizoology, but the curriculum is rather restricting, you know? They refuse to even look for Crumple-Horned Snorcacks, quite narrow-minded of them, don’t you think?”

She didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, so he didn’t give her one.

“I would quite like to give magical tattoos,” she said, and Draco’s eyes snapped to her. She was looking at him, smiling, and he felt his jaw clench.

“Good for you,” he said, tersely.

She reached out and put a hand over one of his, a move that caused him to utterly freeze, like he was rooted to the spot.

“You can’t remove magical tattoos, but you can cover them up, you know.” Her voice was kind and warm and she was still smiling at him, and he realized that she was _offering_ him something.

“I—” he felt quite overwhelmed. Swallowing tightly, he said, “If you ever need someone to practice on, Lovegood…”

He didn’t quite manage to finish his sentence, but Luna beamed at him nonetheless.

“That’s very kind of you, Draco, thank you. And you can call me Luna, you know!”

Then, to his utter bewilderment, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He simply stared at her, not knowing what to make of her, when an aggressive voice suddenly shouted, “Hey!”

He looked up, to find Ginny Weasley stomping towards him, followed by Potter, who seemed to be trying to pull her back.

“ _What_ do you think you’re doing, Malfoy?” She demanded, standing in front of him and crossing her arms.

He raised her eyebrows with her. _This_ kind of behaviour, he knew much better how to deal with.

“Having a conversation with Lovegood,” he replied, coolly. “What does it look like?”

“Why are you bothering her?” Weasley continued, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Ginny, come on.” Potter urged from behind her, quietly. “You know Luna went up to him.”

“You should listen to your boyfriend, Weasley,” Draco smirked. “He’s actually got it right for once.”

“Oh, sod off, Malfoy,” Potter snapped at him and Draco grinned. _This_ felt familiar. _This_ felt like the old days, before the war, before the Dark Lord, before the entire world fell apart, when all Draco had to worry about was Granger beating him in a test and Blaise teasing him about his hair and Potter being so annoyingly _Potter._

“It’s alright, Ginny!” Luna piped up from beside Draco in a bright tone. “Draco and I were just talking about apprenticeships! He doesn’t want to tell me what his is, but that’s okay; I told him about wanting to do magical tattoos and he said he’d let me practice on him!”

The Weaslette sneered at him.

“You’d know all about magical tattoos, wouldn’t you, Malfoy?”

Draco felt something inside him go cold.

“Ginny,” Potter was saying, in a low, warning voice, but she didn’t flinch. Draco was seconds away from spitting back a biting retort, but stopped himself at the last minute.

Because it _wasn’t_ before. It was after. After the war, after the Dark Lord, after his father went to Azkaban and his family name came tumbling down into the dirt. After Potter both saved the world and destroyed the one Draco thought he lived in.

“Luna kindly offered to cover mine up. If I ever get tired of being reminded of the mistakes I’ve made, I might take her up on it.”

Weasley didn’t seem to have a response to this, so instead she gestured for Luna to get up and leave with them. Draco was uncomfortably aware of Potter’s eyes on him.

Luna got to her feet, still smiling at Draco.

“Would you like to join me to visit the Thestrals this evening, Draco?”

“That would be lovely, Luna.” Draco responded, smiling back at her. Lovegood certainly was an odd one, but he would take odd over a scowling Weasley any day.


	16. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry felt his stomach sink more and more with every word Ashworth said. He didn’t have anything against the idea, exactly, but his standing in school was nothing like it was in fifth year, when he was in charge of Dumbledore’s Army. In fact, it was completely the opposite now. Instead of the outcast, he was now the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, Saviour of the Wizarding World, as much as he hated it. How was he supposed to find someone who actually needed tutoring and was able to take him seriously as a teacher, instead of seeing him as the Harry Potter? It wasn’t like he could just get old members of the D.A. either, they had already learned what he had to teach them.

Seven minutes into Harry’s fourth meeting with Ashworth and he was already out of breath.

“Are you sure you’re not training me to be an Auror?” He huffed, as Ashworth lowered his wand and gestured for him to take a seat.

Ashworth laughed. “You do want to be a Defence teacher, don’t you? Knowing Defence is part of that.”

“Well, sure, but how much classroom duelling is there going to be?” Harry said, accepting the glass of water his professor offered to him.

“You don’t want to be one of those teachers that only does theory, do you?” Ashworth questioned, raising his eyebrows.

“Godric, no,” Harry shook his head vigorously, thinking of Umbridge.

Ashworth chuckled again. “There is something I wanted to bring up with you, though. Sort of an assignment, if you will.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, his curiosity sufficiently spiked.  
“I know you’ve had some practice teaching, in your fifth year, with…Dumbledore’s Army, was it?” At Harry’s nod, Ashworth continued. “I think it would be beneficial for you to do some more of that.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. “But…Dumbledore’s Army doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Yes, of course, I don’t mean exactly that, I mean I think you should find someone—a student or even several students—whom you could tutor. There are definitely students who need it and it would be good practice for you as well. I know you’re busy with classes as well, but try and find a time once a week to meet up with whoever you end up tutoring.”

Harry felt his stomach sink more and more with every word Ashworth said. He didn’t have anything against the idea, exactly, but his standing in school was nothing like it was in fifth year, when he was in charge of Dumbledore’s Army. In fact, it was completely the opposite now. Instead of the outcast, he was now the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, Saviour of the Wizarding World, as much as he hated it. How was he supposed to find someone who actually needed tutoring and was able to take him seriously as a teacher, instead of seeing him as _the_ Harry Potter? It wasn’t like he could just get old members of the D.A. either, they had already learned what he had to teach them.

“Harry?”

“Huh?” Harry forced his attention back on his professor.

“I said, is that something you think you can do?”

“Yes, of course.” Harry lied, not wanting it to seem like he was incapable of fulfilling a simple assignment.

Ashworth’s face spread into a wide smile.

“Excellent. Let me know when you’ve found someone and keep me updated on your progress. Meanwhile, we’ll continue our sessions together. I’m trying to find a time where Waya can come in as well, since he’s much more of a Defence expert than I am.”

“That would be great, Professor,” Harry said, honestly.

He really was looking forward to sessions with Waya. The Defence Against The Dark Arts instructor was fascinating—he never revealed much about himself in classes and he was rather casual with them all, but he was an excellent teacher. They were always on their feet, practicing and moving, and Waya just threw in new spells for them to learn on the fly. Harry was secretly eager for the day Waya would begin teaching them more wandless and non-verbal spells. The man seemed to be a master at them, casting almost every spell wandlessly unless he was showing them the proper wand movement for a new spell.

Harry was able to do some spells wandlessly, but they were only minor spells, like _Lumos_ and _Wingardium Leviosa._ He would love to know how to cast more powerful spells. After his wand had been broken—albeit temporarily—he had been forced to realize how dependent he was on it. Knowing how to cast a variety of wandless spells would make him feel far more secure. He wondered if he could ask Waya to teach him some during their sessions, or if that wouldn’t count as being necessary for his apprenticeship.

For now, however, he had to worry about finding someone to tutor.

*

“What?” Harry said, for the umpteenth time, still not fully understanding what he was being told. Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

“Which part of this is complicated, Harry? Ron and I decided we’re better off being friends.” She repeated, concisely.

Harry cast a confused look from her to Ron. “But…why? You just got together.”

He decided it best not to mention the intense jealousy and romantic tension the two had been sporting for each other since fourth year, that had been so obvious even Harry had picked up on it.

Hermione gives a little sigh. “I suppose the simplest answer is that it’s different now. During the war, it felt as though everything was amplified. There were so many times where our lives were in danger and it just intensified every emotion. But now, our priorities aren’t just getting out alive anymore and it just…” she looked at Ron with a soft expression. “It changes things, you know?”

Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of what Ginny had said during their talk.

“Yeah, mate, and it…well, ‘Mione says it was like an experiment, right?” Ron added. “We had feelings for each other and gave it a go and…well, it didn’t really work out.”

“But…do you still? Have feelings for each other?” Harry asked. Hermione and Ron looked at each other, exchanging some kind of communication through their eyes that was lost on Harry.

“We’ve been through a lot together,” Hermione said, in a voice that was suddenly soft. “We all have. And I will always love Ron, just like I will always love you, Harry. But it’s the three of us. It’s meant to be the three of us.”

Harry looked at Ron, as if waiting for him to confirm or deny this.

“What she said,” Ron affirmed, and then grinned widely. “Besides, after a few months, she would’ve lost her patience and killed me anyway.”

Hermione protested and swatted at him and Ron laughed and batted her away and Harry felt a sudden lightness in his heart. He gave Ron a sheepish look and said, “I suppose now is a good time to tell you about me and Ginny, then.”


	17. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I mentioned what I’d read in your book about Muggle symbolism being related to wand trees and he told me that that was a lot more common than many people realized, that a lot of Muggle ideas on imagery have their roots in magic. And it reminded me of some books on Magical Botany I had read when I was young, about the use of flowers in potions and about what they represent in magical culture. I know a lot about Magical Botany actually, and it had me thinking, what if Muggle symbolism of flowers was similar?”
> 
> Violet was looking at him with a smile on her face and an expression that Draco could only understand as proud.
> 
> “You’re really interested in this, aren’t you?”
> 
> Draco nodded, slowly.
> 
> “You’re quite the surprise, Draco Malfoy, you know that?”
> 
> He offered her a smile in return. “I hope you mean that in a good way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I know the last chapter was super short, so here's a long one to make up for it! Thanks for reading, let me know what you think <3

   

Draco walked through the empty hallway with a tightly wound knot in his stomach. This was a mostly unoccupied part of the castle—he supposed that was why their meeting space had been chosen here, as the true nature of his apprenticeship was meant to be kept a secret.

If he’d been less nervous, maybe he would’ve noticed how odd the corridor was, even for Hogwarts. There were no windows; the hall was lit with high-hanging torches, charmed to keep their flames burning at all times. There were also no paintings, which was highly unusual for Hogwarts, where most walls were covered with portraits of various figures of magical history.

As it were, though, Draco was far too preoccupied to wonder about the strange qualities of the hallway he was walking down.  It was his first meeting with Ollivander, and he didn’t know what to expect. He still didn’t understand why Ollivander had agreed to mentor him, but he was overwhelmingly grateful that he had, so he didn’t want to mess up and make him change his mind.

When he reached the door of the classroom, he paused and closed his eyes for a moment. He thought of Luna in the dungeons, her smile after he had healed her, and the way Ollivander had looked at him with that curious expression in his bright eyes.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Ollivander was seated in a low chair, his frail-looking hands delicately turning a wand as he examined it. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up and a small smile crossed his face when he saw Draco.

“Welcome, my boy. Do come in.” Ollivander gestured to a seat beside him and Draco obediently crossed the room and sat, his hands in his lap and his back up straight.

His tense posture didn’t escape Ollivander’s notice.

“You’re nervous,” he stated. It was clear he didn’t mean it as a question, but Draco nodded anyway.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Don’t be,” Ollivander said, gently. “I wouldn’t have agreed to take you on if I didn’t believe in your abilities and in your talent. You’re a bright boy, Mr Malfoy. You’ve made some bad decisions in your life, no question,”—Draco felt a coldness spike at his gut at these words—“but I believe strongly in man’s tremendous capability for change.”

“You’re too kind, sir,” Draco said, feeling that same sort of hollowness he’d felt at Luna and Violet’s words.

Ollivander regarded him. “You do not believe yourself worthy of forgiveness.”

This also wasn’t a question. Draco looked down, not able to meet the wandmaker’s eyes.

“Very well. A different question, then. You wish to study wandlore?”

Draco looked up and nodded.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the very root of it all. We study various types of magic; branches, categories, but wandlore is more than that. It’s more than magic, it’s the vessel through which our magic is channelled. We’re dependent on our wands, they’re as much a part of us as our magic is.”

Ollivander smiled at him, causing even more wrinkles to appear in his worn face.

“A good answer, lad. Tell me, what do you already know about wandlore?”

“I know about the woods used for wands, how Bowtruckles guard wand trees. I know many of them were used in ancient Egyptian magic and old Celtic magic. I know many Muggle beliefs about the symbolism of wand trees are linked to their magical properties,” he neglected to mention that he had only recently acquired this last bit of knowledge, due to Violet showing him a chapter in her Muggle Studies book. He had to remember to thank her later.

Ollivander held up a hand, indicating for him to stop.

“May I see your wand, boy?”

Draco felt his heart drop. He almost felt he would be insulting Ollivander, showing him this shoddy excuse for a wand. Nevertheless, he withdrew it and handed it to the old wandmaker.

Ollivander examined it for a long, agonizing minute or two.

Finally, he asked, “What were you told of this wand?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Draco asked, trying not to wince at the man’s furrowed eyebrows.

“Its wood, its core. What were you told?”

“Redwood, sir. Redwood and kneazle hair, fifteen inches. He said it was lucky.” Draco recited, finding himself once again mentally cursing the wandmaker that had sold it to him.

To his surprise, Ollivander let out a bark-like laugh. Draco stared at him.

“Redwood doesn’t bring luck,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s an old superstition. Redwood wands are attracted to people who have the wonderful skill of always landing on their feet, which others interpreted to mean they were lucky and rushed to give the credit to the wand. No, no, redwood doesn’t bring good fortune, it is simply drawn towards people with the knack of snatching advantage from catastrophe.”

Draco merely felt his heart sink even further into his stomach.

“That doesn’t really sound like me, sir.”

Ollivander just chuckled, shocking him again. “Well, my dear boy, that seems to be irrelevant here, as this isn’t actually redwood.”

“What?” Draco cried, looking from him to the wand.

“Redwood is in short supply and constant demand,” Ollivander continued, calmly. “It has an excellent reputation and is a highly sought after wand wood. It is especially rare in Britain, as redwood trees do not grow here and are mostly found in North America. I’m afraid you’ve been scammed.”

“Unbelievable,” Draco muttered, shaking his head. “What is it then?”

“Come closer and take a look,” Ollivander said, holding out the wand for Draco to see better. “Let this be your first lesson. You see the warm, reddish-brown tone? Feel how tough and durable it is? This is a hardwood. Redwood trees are softwoods, and their colour is a much richer, deeper red. Take a closer look at this. You’re familiar with the woods, you said, can you tell what this is?”

Draco took his loathed wand into his hand and inspected it, feeling the material in his hand. Ollivander was right, of course, it was much sturdier than redwood should be. It had faint striping down it too, which woods had that again?

“Is it walnut?” Draco asked. “No, no, wait, it’s far too red for that. Mahogany?”

A smile lit up Ollivander’s face.

“ _Excellent_ ,” he said, sounding delighted. “I do believe I am looking at Britain’s next great wandmaker.”

Draco’s heart leapt out of his stomach and soared.

*

“What are you reading?” Violet asked, taking her usual seat beside Draco on the windowseat. Not wanting to get distracted, Draco simply held up the large book in order for her to see the title.

“ _The Language of Flowers_? Draco, is that a Muggle book?”

Draco nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the page.

“Is there a reason you’re reading a Muggle book about flowers?”

Realizing she was not going to give up on a conversation just because he was ignoring her, Draco finally put the book down and looked up at her.

“I had my first meeting with Ollivander last night,” he said in a low voice.

After a lot of deliberation, he had decided that Violet was going to be the one person he told about the true nature of his apprenticeship. He knew that they were new friends, but he felt so inexplicably close to her and he couldn’t stop thinking about how she had trusted him with intimate details about her life and her family, so he made the decision to trust her back. So far, he had no regrets.

“How was it?” she asked, her volume going down with his.

“Absolutely fascinating. I mentioned what I’d read in your book about Muggle symbolism being related to wand trees and he told me that that was a lot more common than many people realized, that a lot of Muggle ideas on imagery have their roots in magic. And it reminded me of some books on Magical Botany I had read when I was young, about the use of flowers in potions and about what they represent in magical culture. I know a lot about Magical Botany actually, and it had me thinking, what if Muggle symbolism of flowers was similar?”

Violet was looking at him with a smile on her face and an expression that Draco could only understand as proud.

“You’re really interested in this, aren’t you?”

Draco nodded, slowly.

“You’re quite the surprise, Draco Malfoy, you know that?”

He offered her a smile in return. “I hope you mean that in a good way.”

A laugh bubbled out of her. “Git. Get back to your flower book, I have homework to do.”

Draco didn’t have to be told twice, picking up his book and diving back in.

 

It was hours later when Violet let out a loud yawn and closed her own books.

“I’m tired, I think I’m going to go to bed.”

Draco looked up at her. “Sleep well.”

“Thanks, Draco. Don’t stay up too late. The flowers can wait till tomorrow.”

He smiled at her. “Yes, Mother.”

“I don’t know why I try,” she muttered, but she was smiling as she packed up her things and headed up to the girls’ dormitory.

Draco closed his book and looked around at the common room. It was empty, it had been for at least an hour now, aside from him and Violet, of course.

His eyes fell upon the small, circular table that sat in the centre of the room and the vase upon it. He hadn’t told Violet, but that had been another motivator for his research into flowers. He had been curious about the flowers since he first saw them and wondered why those particular ones had been chosen. He’d been hoping maybe the Muggle book would give him some more answers.

He walked over to the table and Summoned one of the many desk chairs from under the staircase so he could sit by the circular table.

There had to be a reason for each choice, surely. Draco just didn’t understand what those reasons were.

*

Draco was still sitting there staring at the flowers when the now-familiar sound of bricks clattering open shook him from his daze. His head snapped up and—of course—it was Potter. Who else? Of course Potter believed himself immune to the rules, of course Potter wouldn’t find a problem with being out of bounds after midnight, why would he?

Draco chose to look back at the flowers, but his meditative state had been interrupted. He was now too aware of the crease in his brow, how pursed his lips were, the taste of blood inside his mouth as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

His expression of frustration must have been quite obvious, because Potter decided to comment.

“What’s got your wand in a knot?”

“What’s it to you, Potter?” Draco shot back, with none of the old bite he used to have.

Potter shrugged, like he couldn’t possibly care less.

“Just don’t see a reason to be glaring at flowers.”

Draco sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m not _glaring,_ I’m simply…” he trailed off. Alright. He was glaring. A little. He hadn’t _meant_ to. And it was rude of Potter to even say so, who was he to come barging in and accusing Draco of _glaring_?

Potter just _looked_ at him, eyebrows raised, green eyes wide and expectant.

“The selection…I cannot fathom it,” Draco finally said, giving the flowers another withering look. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore was behind it, he was always fond of these illustrative exhibitions.”

Potter’s face suddenly seemed to go hard, his jaw set like he was clenching his teeth.

“Dumbledore’s dead,” he said, shortly, his voice clearly betraying hints of anger.

Draco sighed again. Merlin, but Potter was exhausting, wasn’t he?

“Yes, I know. His portrait is still in the Headmistress’s office. He gives lots of advice. Rumour has it that it was his idea to have all the Eighth Years housed together.”

“Oh,” Potter said, before starting to walk towards the middle of the room, towards Draco. “Why would you think this was his idea?”

“Haven’t I just said?” Draco said, impatiently, though he really hadn’t, and it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be anyway.

Potter shrugged again, and Draco was shocked to see him walk over to the desks and pick up a chair to bring over. Draco just watched him, not even trying to hide the surprise in his face. The way Potter did things was odd sometimes. Why walk over to the desks and drag a chair all the way over when he could have just levitated it over?

Draco didn’t ask, though, as Potter got back to the round little table and sat down in his new chair.

“They’re just the House colours, aren’t they?”

Draco looked at him, the brightness of his green eyes causing a jolt in his stomach that he learned to expect around Potter, but still hadn’t gotten used to.

“Do you know anything about the symbolism of flowers?” he asked, careful that he not sound insulting in his questioning.

“Should I?” asked Potter, giving the flowers another look, as if they were going to suddenly reveal their secrets to him.

“I suppose not,” Draco said, slowly. “If you’ve never read about botany.”

Potter snorted and raised his eyebrows. “Really, Malfoy? When would I have read about _botany?_ ”

Draco shrugged and looked down, feeling somewhat embarrassed. _He_ had read about botany when he was a child. He had been fascinated. He had been fascinated about everything; everything had been so exciting to him when he was young. He had wanted to know everything there was to know.

For a while, at least.

“Well, I have,” he said, somewhat defensively. “And that’s why I can tell you that they’re not just _House colours,_ you daft Gryffindork. Flowers are a way of communicating. They have a language.”

Potter didn’t even react to the insult, instead patiently asking, “So what are these ones saying?”

Draco looked at him, trying to figure out if this was some sort of trick, if Potter’s friends were lying in wait for the perfect moment to jump out and hex him. But Potter simply looked curious, his face so open, every emotion written so plainly on his face it made Draco feel vulnerable just _looking_ at him.

He sighed. Alright, he supposed he could _briefly_ explain basic magical floral symbolism to Potter. He had, after all, just amassed a lot of new information about the Muggle side of things as well.

“Very well, let’s look at the poppy then.”

“What about it?” Potter asked, his eyes on the delicate red flower.

“There are _hundreds_ of red flowers to choose from if they simply wanted to represent Gryffindor, why not choose something else? A rose? A carnation? A tulip?”

Potter chewed down on his lip in thought. Draco’s eyes flickered to watch the movement before he refocused.

“Poppies are used in a variety of potions,” Draco continued, when it was clear Potter wasn’t going to say anything. “Opium poppies are even used in Muggle medicine,” at this, Potter’s head snapped up, as though shocked Draco could possibly know anything about Muggles. Draco chose to ignore this, partly because merely a short time ago, his surprise would’ve been completely founded.

“Throughout time, people interpreted flowers differently. Witches and wizards in East Asia believed the poppy to be a deeply romantic flower, and recommended couples keep them in their homes to magically strengthen their passion for one another. However, in Ancient Greece and Egypt, poppies represented sleep and death. They were often used as offerings to the dead. Many ancient wizards used to believe poppy seeds were the key to resurrection. Potioneers ended up overdosing on the morphine in the poppy seeds in their efforts to create an elixir that could bring people back from the dead.”

He glanced at Potter, who looked utterly captivated by Draco’s explanation, and quickly averted his eyes back to the vase.

He felt his voice subconsciously lower. “But after the first Great Muggle War, poppies became symbolic of remembrance. Red ones specifically were intrinsically linked to death and the memory of soldiers who died in the war.” He trailed off rather pathetically, realizing that _war_ was the last subject he should be bringing up around Harry bloody Potter, but Potter didn’t tense up or storm off the way he’d often been seen doing when the war was brought up.

Instead, he was staring at the flower in the vase like he was seeing it for the first time.

“What about the other ones?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Hmm?” Draco leaned forward in an effort to hear.

“The other flowers. What do they mean?”

Draco allowed himself a smirk. “Well, well, well, a Gryffindor not entirely consumed with his own House only?”

Potter rolled his eyes and Draco was secretly glad for it. There had to remain _something_ familiar in this otherwise otherworldly conversation they were having. They were, after all, a Death Eater and the Chosen One, and Draco couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that this wasn’t just going to end as a simple conversation about botanical imagery.

“Go on then,” Potter encouraged, looking at Draco keenly. “What about the other ones?”

Draco let out a resigned sigh. Well, he’d been agonizing over the choices of flowers by himself for ages now, what was the harm in saying it aloud, especially if someone was eager to listen?

“I don’t understand why they chose marigold for the Hufflepuffs,” he said, firmly. “Surely a clearer choice would be the sunflower, happiness and good fortune and all that Hufflepuff drivel. Or even a black-eyed susan, representative of the justice Hufflepuffs are apparently _pursuing_ ,” he gestured up to the enormous tapestries and was rather pleased when Potter snorted.

“But marigold,” Draco murmured, looking at the flower with a mix of frustration and fondness. It _was_ rather beautiful after all. “Another symbol of remembrance of the dead. Celebration of the dead.” At the look on Potter’s face, he hastened to clarify, “No, no, not a celebration of their _death,_ but rather of their life. There is a popular Mexican cultural event where they gather to rejoice the lives of their departed loved ones. Day of the Dead, it’s called. It’s quite lovely, in fact. Both wizards and Muggles celebrate it.” Potter was giving him that odd, curious look again, so Draco deemed it advisable to press on. “But it was also a symbol of despair and grief. The loss of love. It was a flower of pain. Its connection with death also led to people believing it had the power to resurrect the dead, though not as much as the poppy. Some people thought the marigold to be a positive flower. Medieval wizards used to carry them as love charms when they wanted to attract someone new. They were said to represent winning someone’s affections through dedication and hard work. But the marigold’s relationship with death was too strong for it to truly escape.”

“I think that makes sense for Hufflepuff.” Potter finally spoke, in a quiet but firm voice. “Celebrating the lives of the dead, I mean. Overcoming hardship, dealing with sadness in a positive way. I reckon Hufflepuffs are the strongest lot of all of us sometimes.”

Draco watched him, but Potter’s eyes remained on the flowers. Draco found it an odd thing to say; he never thought that Potter was especially close with any Hufflepuffs. None of his immediate group were Hufflepuffs, not that Draco knew of. He wanted desperately to know, but he knew Potter would clam up and disappear if he pried, so he decided to contain his curiosity for the moment.

“The Siberian larkspur then.” he said, and Potter seemed to return from a moment of reverie. He gave an apologetic smile, as if he had interrupted a professor mid-lecture.

“Sorry, yeah, go on.”

Draco eyed him, unsure if he was being made fun of. But Potter seemed genuinely interested, so he carried on.

“They’re quite beautiful.”

“That’s the blue one, right?”

“Precisely. Blue flowers are quite rare in nature, but the Siberian larkspur is an exception. The first known use of larkspur flowers was to chase away scorpions and other such pests. Both Muggles and wizards used it for this reason, however wizards also believed that larkspur could protect them from ghosts and spirits.”

“Can it?” Potter asked.

Draco smirked a little. “Not really. That was mostly an old wives’ tale. It worked on the scorpions though. Moreover, it _is_ an important ingredient in advanced potion brewing, however only the most experienced Potions Masters can use it, as if it’s not handled properly, it can be poisonous. It has a wonderful scent though,” Draco paused as Potter leaned over to sniff the flower and then nodded in agreement.

“According to Greek mythology, small blue larkspur flowers appeared in place of blood drops when the warrior Ajax threw himself upon his own sword after not being granted the title of bravest warrior, signified through the gift of Achilles’ armour.” Draco paused again here, unsure if he wanted to voice his thoughts. But Potter was looking up at him, waiting, and well, he was already this far in. “I don’t know if they’re the right choice either. For Ravenclaw, that is. I suppose, to a certain extent, yes, they represent dignity, dedication, protection against danger, and again—remembering loved ones who have passed. But more notably, they are symbols of cheerfulness and openness. They’re for the romantically adventurous, those looking for new experiences; creative, positive, Hufflepuff-type people.”

“I don’t know about that,” Potter mused, looking at the blue flower with an expression of newfound appreciation. “Everything you just said describes Luna perfectly, and she’s a Ravenclaw.”

Draco blinked and considered this.

Then his shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps I don’t really understand the Houses as well as I thought.”

Potter simply stared at him, his green eyes large and unreadable. Draco sat under his gaze until he felt his skin start to crawl.

He straightened up.

“Well, Potter, I hope this has been educational for you, I’m off to bed.” he said, reverting back to his typical lofty tone. He rose from his chair and was about to turn and head towards the staircase to the boys’ dormitories when Potter’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

His reflexes really were—Draco felt himself internally cringe—lightning sharp.

“Wait,” Potter said, redundantly.

“What?” asked Draco, coldly. Managing a civil conversation with Potter was one thing, he drew the line at physical contact.

“You didn’t explain Slytherin’s.” Potter said, pointedly gesturing towards the green rose.

“I wasn’t aware I owed you an explanation.” Draco sneered back.

“Oh, come off it, Malfoy,” said Potter, irritated. “Just tell me.”

Draco sighed.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Draco wasn’t sure when he started ceding to Potter’s demands without bitterly arguing the whole way down, but he supposed he would have to analyse this new change in his behaviour at a later time. As for now, he took his seat again and scowled at the pale green flower.

“It makes the least amount of sense.” He was put off, and he sounded it too. “Green flowers are even more unusual than blue, but nonetheless, a _rose_ for Slytherin,” he barked out a sharp laugh and ignored the apprehensive look Potter threw his way. “Well, you wanted a translation. Roses typically mean love, but green roses specifically symbolise peace and tranquillity. Traditionally, they’re spiritual flowers, and they’re popularly used in fertility potions. They’re meant to represent life, hope, growth, rejuvenation. _New beginnings,_ ” he snarled so viciously that Potter looked up at him, alarmed, but he didn’t allow him to interrupt. “Balance, stability, peace of mind, cheerfulness, self-respect, _a sign of good tidings_.”

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Potter and Draco had half a mind to hex him.

“What’s _wrong_ with that?” Draco demanded, feeling his voice getting shrill but now unable to stop himself. “It’s utter _rubbish_ is what’s wrong with it! Every other House—a symbol of remembrance of the dead, or celebration of the dead, or tribute to the dead, but Slytherin? _New beginnings._ ” Draco could feel the heat rising in his chest, could feel the anger he had worked so hard on repressing for months bubbling up inside of him. “Because obviously we couldn’t give a toss about the dead, right? Because we didn’t lose _anyone_ , right? Balance? Peace? Who are they trying to fool? _Stability?_ Slytherin House has never been so unstable in all of Hogwarts history. It’s _bollocks,_ balance and cheerfulness and fucking _self-respect!_ ”

Potter did not interrupt once, nor did he try to reign in Draco’s outburst. He simply sat there, watching and waiting as Draco ranted. When he was finally done, breathing heavily and looking down at the floor, Potter spoke softly.

“Well, maybe it’s not about what the Houses are, but what they should be.”

Draco looked at him. He wasn’t looking back; instead, he was looking off into space, the moonlight reflecting gently in his bright emerald eyes. His face was worn, like a man who had fought a war, but still so young, and Draco suddenly felt a strange urge to tuck him away somewhere warm and safe and hide him from the world.

“You said they’re odd choices. Maybe they’re sending a message, like the Sorting Hat. The poppy is telling us Gryffindors that we can’t keep chasing after the dead. They’re gone. We have to acknowledge that we can’t change that, we can’t bring them back. And the Hufflepuffs. They’re always the ones cheering everyone else up, making sure everyone else is taken care of. Maybe the marigold is a way of telling them that they are allowed to grieve as well. That they are allowed to feel the pain of everyone we lost. Maybe the larkspur is saying that Ravenclaws need to open themselves up more, be willing to take a risk and get hurt instead of staying safe inside their comfort zone.”

Draco didn’t even realize how spellbound he was by Potter’s speech until he heard himself ask in a raspy voice, “And Slytherin?”

Potter’s eyes finally met his, and he offered a sad sort of smile.

“Peace. Growth. _New beginnings_. It’s offering you a chance. Slytherin doesn’t have to be defined by the mistakes its members have made in the past. It’s a new day. And clearly, it has a good feeling about what Slytherin is going to become.”

“It does?” Draco asked, suddenly feeling rather stupid.

“You said it yourself.” Potter said, shrugging, as if this was all very simple. “Hope. Self-respect. A sign of good tidings. Sounds pretty good to me.”

Draco just stared at him, awestruck, as Potter rose from his chair. He hovered for a moment, as though steeling himself to do something.

“Thanks for telling me about the flowers.” He finally said. “It was interesting.”

“Right. Uh, certainly, Potter.” Draco managed, internally cursing himself for his stumbling.

“Well. Night, Draco,” said Potter and then he bounded up the left-side staircase and disappeared from sight.

All that rung in Draco’s head was Potter saying his given name aloud, something Draco could only remember him doing once before—while taunting Voldemort during the Final Battle.


	18. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for Harry, news of Ron and Hermione’s breakup did little to distract the students of Hogwarts from the far more popular news of his and Ginny’s. While Ron and Hermione had certainly gotten their fair share of attention over the summer—especially in all those articles about “The Golden Trio”—their fame was newfound, while Harry remained a household name.
> 
> Suddenly, everyone wanted to know what had happened between him and Ginny, and when he refused to give out any details, people were more than happy to make up their own.
> 
> “Honestly, this is getting ridiculous,” Hermione commented at dinner, regarding the latest rumour that Ginny had cheated on Harry during the war.
> 
> Ron nodded emphatically. “Nadine Bellemore tried to confront Ginny about it. Threw a hex at her and everything.”
> 
> “What?” Harry demanded. “Is Ginny alright?”
> 
> Ron just grinned. “Please, mate, this is Ginny we’re talking about. Bellemore ended up on the receiving end of her famous Bat-Bogey Hex. Should teach people to stay away from my sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I know this is very late and I'm so sorry! These past two, three weeks have been seriously deadly for me; I'm behind on schoolwork and real life work and my apartment's a mess, it's just a disaster. ANYWAY, I wanted to say a big thank you for your comments on the last chapter (and all of them, to be honest). I keep meaning to get around to replying to them all, but as stated previously, I'm terrible at time management and my life is collapsing around me, sO I'm sorry but I love you all and thank you thank you thank you for all the kind comments!! Enjoy this chapter, I'll try to be on time with the next one!

Harry had to admit, he much preferred Ron and Hermione post-break up. The first week was admittedly a little awkward between the two of them, but after that, they slipped easily back into old rhythms and Harry felt like he had his friends back.

He knew it was selfish to feel glad they had split, but the two of them seemed better off for it as well. Ron was brighter, laughing more, and Hermione seemed less agitated, and she wasn’t nagging at them about homework quite as much.

He finally confronted Hermione about it one night in the eighth year common room, while Ron was busy with his Auror apprenticeship.

“Are you and Ron alright, Hermione?” he asked, watching her from his armchair. Hermione’s quill didn’t pause for a second and she didn’t look up from her parchment.

“Of course we are, Harry, why wouldn’t we be?”

“I mean it, Hermione. I’m not going to find him attacked by a flock of birds, am I?”

Hermione looked up to shoot a glare his way. With a sigh, she set her quill down.

“I know it’s really sudden,” she said. “But all the pieces came into focus and let us see the bigger picture. Your first love is…well, it’s powerful. And it holds on to you. And I think, during the war, we needed that. I needed to hold on to the hope that Ron would come back, when he left. And I think he needed to hold on to the hope that I was waiting for him. And in the Battle, it felt like…it felt like the culmination of our entire lives here at Hogwarts. It felt like it was the apex, we threw everything into it. I fought the hardest I’ve ever fought during the Battle. So…it only makes sense that I would love just as hard, doesn’t it? But that was the peak for me and Ron, that was the most it was ever going to be. And there’s no point in carrying on when we’ve already felt the most we were ever going to feel for each other.”

Harry must have still looked confused, because Hermione sighed again and gave him a small smile.

“You know, I first started thinking about it when we got back from Australia,” she said, looking off into the distance with a fond expression on her face. “My parents were very upset with me, of course, but somewhere in all the scolding, my mother took me aside and asked about Ron. She said she could tell that something had happened between us. I asked her about Dad, about how she had known she was in love with him. She told me that being in love with someone wasn’t what made you want to spend your life with them. She said that there were thousands of kinds of love, and only by letting yourself feel as much of it as you can will you figure out the differences.”

“That kind of sounds like what Dumbledore always used to say,” Harry commented, without thinking. When Hermione gave him a curious look, he elaborated, “He always talked about the power of love and I always related it to my mother. But there were other kinds of love that saved me, other kinds of love that had that kind of power.”

Hermione smiled, warmly, and reached out to squeeze his hand.

“So you and Ron definitely didn’t work out then?” He asked again. She rolled her eyes.

“You’ve seen us argue. How long did you really think we were going to last?”

* 

Unfortunately for Harry, news of Ron and Hermione’s breakup did little to distract the students of Hogwarts from the far more popular news of his and Ginny’s. While Ron and Hermione had certainly gotten their fair share of attention over the summer—especially in all those articles about “The Golden Trio”—their fame was newfound, while Harry remained a household name.

Suddenly, everyone wanted to know what had happened between him and Ginny, and when he refused to give out any details, people were more than happy to make up their own.

“Honestly, this is getting ridiculous,” Hermione commented at dinner, regarding the latest rumour that Ginny had cheated on Harry during the war.

Ron nodded emphatically. “Nadine Bellemore tried to confront Ginny about it. Threw a hex at her and everything.”

“What?” Harry demanded. “Is Ginny alright?”

Ron just grinned. “Please, mate, this is Ginny we’re talking about. Bellemore ended up on the receiving end of her famous Bat-Bogey Hex. Should teach people to stay away from my sister.”

Harry sighed in relief. The last thing he wanted was to be the reason people began attacking his friends again.

“People really have no idea what they’re talking about,” Hermione said, in an irritated tone. “As if Ginny would ever cheat. I overheard two Ravenclaws saying it was because she was jealous about all the attention Harry was getting after the war. They’ll make up any preposterous reason they like just to have something to talk about.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice both rumours seemed to have Ginny in the blame. He had hoped their breakup wouldn’t have any negative repercussions for her, but it looked like that was a pointless wish.

“It will blow over,” Hermione said in a comforting tone to Harry, clearly noticing his worried expression. “Have you found someone to tutor yet?”

She clearly thought changing the subject to Harry’s apprenticeship would help ease his mind and Harry appreciated the sentiment, but he only felt his worry increase.

“No,” he groaned. “I can’t think of anyone. The only person I even considered was Dennis Creevey, but he’s too young for Advanced Defence. Ashworth said I should find someone that’s at least finished their O.W.L.s.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said, her bushy eyebrows drawing in thought. “What about Demelza Robins? You know her from Quidditch, right?”

Harry brightened for a moment, but then was interrupted by Ron making a loud sound and shaking his head. He and Hermione waited until Ron finished chewing and swallowing so he could elaborate. He let out a burp and then grinned at Hermione, apologetically.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly. “Anyway, Demelza’s the Gryffindor Quidditch captain this year. She was offered it after Ginny turned it down. You could try, but I don’t know if she’ll have time for extra lessons, you know.”

“Ah, bugger, you’re right,” Harry sighed. “Why did Ginny turn it down anyway? Isn’t she hoping to get recruited this year?”

“Yeah, but you know Ginny. She loves bossing people around, but only when it’s not actually her job.” Ron shrugged.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Hermione interjected. “I’ll try and think of someone for you, but keep an open mind, alright? Don’t just shoot everyone down.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry agreed. “Maybe I’ll ask Slughorn if I can make an announcement in class or something.”

He dreaded the idea, but he knew showing Hermione he was serious about it would get her off his back.

As expected, Hermione looked satisfied with this answer, and resumed eating her dinner.

“Hey, Harry, I almost forgot, do you wanna come to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?” Ron asked, as he began loading his plate with seconds.

“Er, sure, how come?”

Ron gave a little bit of a sigh. “I want to go to the wand shop.”

Hermione looked up. “Is your wand still causing you problems?”

“Not _problems,_ exactly, it’s just…well, it’s not as good as my old one.” Ron reached into his robe pocket to withdraw his wand and let it clatter onto the table.

“I told you to get one this summer, when I got my new one.” Hermione said, in a chastising tone.

“Hang on, why did you need a new wand?” Harry asked, looking at Hermione.

“Because mine and Ron’s got taken by the Snatchers, remember? I’d been using Bellatrix’s wand,” she shuddered slightly as she said Bellatrix’s name.

“And this is Pettigrew’s.” Ron nodded towards the wand now sitting beside his plate. Harry looked down at Ron’s wand, which was indeed must darker and shorter than his old one.

“I’d forgotten,” he said. Turning to Hermione, he asked, “Where’d you get yours? Ollivander?”

Hermione shook her head. “Ollivander was closed for most of the summer. He only opened in time for the new first years to get their wands. I got mine from an Australian wandmaker while we were down there.”

She withdrew her wand and twirled it between her fingers. Harry observed it, wondering how he hadn’t noticed Hermione had a new wand this entire time. It was a rather handsome one too, as wands went, a light brown colour with Celtic-looking white designs above the handle.

“It’s elm and mermaid hair,” Hermione elaborated. “I was sceptical at first, because you know everyone in Britain considers Ollivander the best, but it’s been working wonderfully.”

“Did you hear Ollivander might be retiring?” Ron chimed in. Harry looked at him, surprised.

“What? Why?” he asked.

“I’m not surprised,” Hermione said, sagely. “After everything he went through in the war.”

“But…who will take over for him?” questioned Harry.

“I was wondering that, too. The Ollivanders have been wandmakers for generations, but Ollivander doesn’t have any descendants. His Hogsmeade branch is handled by a wandkeeper, but I don’t think he actually makes any of the wands,” inserted Ron.

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to get a wand before he retires,” Hermione said to Ron. “I’m sure he’s thought about his successor, perhaps he’s trained someone to replace him?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry said, but he wasn’t really mollified.

* 

In today’s Potions, they were finally finishing the Energy Tonic they’d been working on all month. Harry felt guilt swell up inside him as Slughorn talked about how they’d been checking in on their potions each week, knowing full well he hadn’t checked on it once.

Malfoy didn’t say anything about it, though, so Harry simply retrieved the remaining ingredients they needed and sat quietly in his chair, watching Malfoy work. It was rather calming; Malfoy worked with a certain rhythm, and it almost seemed like he wasn’t following the instructions but rather his own intuition.

Until suddenly he paused. Harry watched as his back stiffened and he cast a look around the room.

“What is it, Malfoy?” he asked, noticing that clearly something was wrong. Malfoy turned his head to look at him and, to Harry’s utmost surprise, he gave him a small smirk.

“Can you keep a secret, Potter?” he asked.

“Er…what?” said Harry, too confused to answer properly. Since when did he and Malfoy share secrets?

Malfoy rolled his eyes and discreetly withdrew a miniscule glass vial from his bag. Reaching across the table, he picked up a large tub labelled _Dried Snakeberry_ and began to transfer some of the dark red powder into the vial.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” Harry asked, slightly alarmed now.

“Relax, Potter, I’m not plotting anything evil,” Malfoy said in a low tone. “I don’t suppose you know what snakeberry is, do you?”

“No,” Harry replied, though Malfoy surely knew that he didn’t know what snakeberry was.

“It’s a lovely ingredient, found only in Bolivia. Consume it fresh and it’s deadly, however dry it and boil it and it serves as an energy-booster. _But,_ ” his voice turned to a whisper and he paused dramatically. “If you _snort_ the dry powder, it works as a _marvellous_ psychedelic.”

Harry stared at him. Surely he was joking. But then, Malfoy making a joke, especially around Harry, would be just as outlandish as Malfoy taking psychedelics.

“I never thought you the type,” he said, honestly.

Malfoy scowled at him. “Yes, well, you don’t _know_ me, Potter.”

Harry didn’t have a reply for this, so he simply stayed silent and watched Malfoy stopper the vial and slip it back into his bag.

After leaning over to stir their potion, Malfoy sighed.

“It isn’t for me,” he confessed.

“Hmm?” said Harry, pretending he hadn’t heard.

“The snakeberry. It’s not for me.” Malfoy repeated, a gentle pink flush rising on his pale neck.

“Who’s it for then?”

“Theo,” Malfoy spoke so quietly that Harry had to lean forward to hear him. “It’s his birthday this Saturday.”

Harry looked at him curiously. There was really no reason for Malfoy to be telling him all this, but it seemed like the conversation they’d had over the flowers in the eighth grade common room the other day had sparked an unusual sort of trust between them.

For a moment, Harry wondered if this was an experiment, if Malfoy was testing him with something small to see if he could be trusted.

“Oh. Tell him happy birthday,” he said, though of course there was no reason he should be wishing Theodore Nott a happy birthday. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell Slughorn.”

Malfoy looked at him with those intense silver eyes as if appraising him, and Harry was just about to start squirming under his gaze when Malfoy gave him a short nod and turned his attention back to their potion.


	19. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Experimenting with cores is a vital part of your education in wandmaking. Were you thinking of any in particular?” Ollivander turned his wide, silvery gaze to Draco.
> 
> “Well,” Draco said, slowly. “I was thinking about the trees used for wand woods and how many of them are significant in Muggle culture as well.”
> 
> He paused, wondering how to best explain his though process.
> 
> “My friend, Violet, takes Muggle Studies,” he said, “and she was telling me about how Muggles often intuitively recognize signs of magic, even if they don’t necessarily understand that it’s magic they’re recognizing. It’s something the Wizard-Muggle Relations office is constantly trying to better understand. So I thought, instead of magical creatures and artefacts, would it be possible to use cores that have magical qualities but are visible and accessible to Muggles as well?”
> 
> Ollivander’s eyes were twinkling.

Draco still felt his cheeks burning in embarrassment from the events of two nights ago. He and Theo had gotten sufficiently high on the dry snakeroot for Theo’s birthday, and in his delirium, Draco had kissed him.

Theo had frozen, and when Draco finally pulled away, he had excused himself and fled to the bathroom, leaving Draco sitting there and staring after him. The next day, once they were both sufficiently sober, Theo quietly told Draco that perhaps he had misunderstood something, that he wasn’t interested in him like that.

His insides burning, Draco simply chuckled and blamed it on the snakeberry, assuring him that he too only thought of them as friends. Theo seemed quite relieved at this and smiled at Draco before walking away again, leaving Draco feeling utterly humiliated for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for him, it seemed to have carried over into today as well.

Even the snow that had softly fallen overnight and settled gently on the castle grounds couldn’t cheer him up, and Christmastime had always been his favourite time of the year. When he arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, he saw that the elves had put up the Christmas decorations during the night, leaving the room sparkling and beautiful, and still he could not enjoy it.

He parked himself next to Violet at the Slytherin table and immediately reached for the fried potatoes. Violet gave him a look.

“You’re voluntarily eating starch for breakfast? Who are you and what have you done to Draco Malfoy?”

From across the table, Daphne snickered, causing Violet to look up and beam at her. Draco simply scowled.

“Starch is a dietary necessity,” he mumbled, simply parroting what Violet told him almost every morning.

“Is it because it’s almost Christmas? Do tell me you properly stuff yourself during Christmas dinner, at least,” Violet persisted.

“Of course I do,” replied Draco, neatly cutting a tiny potato in half. “The elves at the Manor always prepare an enormous feast.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. It wouldn’t be like that this year, would it? Not now that Father was gone, and there were only two elves left anyway.

Not that the last two Christmases had exactly followed tradition, either.

Daphne and Violet both seemed to realize he was having some sort of internal crisis, so they mercifully changed the subject.

“Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” Daphne asked, turning her head to Violet with an elegant toss of her blond hair.

Violet nodded, “Yes, I need to get some new parchment and ink. Are you?”

“I was thinking about it,” said Daphne.

“You should! We could go to the Three Broomsticks for a warm drink. It’s been ages since I’ve had a Butterbeer,” Violet suggested.

Daphne considered this and then smiled. “Sure, that would be lovely.”

“Great,” Violet said, and from right beside her, Draco noticed her olive complexion slightly reddening. “What about you, Draco?”

“Hmm? Oh, Hogsmeade. No, I’m not planning on going,” Draco responded, mentally debating whether he should go for some toast as well.

“Why not?”

“I’ve been promising Luna I would visit the Thestrals in the Forest with her for weeks now. Apparently, the babies’ wings are fully grown and they’re starting to fly now, so I told her I’d join her to visit them on Saturday.”  
“Luna Lovegood?” Daphne asked, her eyebrows furrowing.

“Yes,” Draco replied, already prepared for her to make a ‘Loony’ Lovegood joke and knowing full well he couldn’t even act defensive, as he’d said far worse about the Ravenclaw himself.

“That’s so interesting. Does she visit them a lot?”

Draco blinked, wondering if Daphne was being sarcastic. After a moment of silence, Daphne regarded him with a confused expression.

“What? Is it a secret or something?”

“No, no, I just…” Draco stared at her. “You don’t…you don’t think she’s crazy?”

Daphne frowned at him. “She’s rather eccentric, and more than a bit odd, but I don’t think she’s crazy, no.”

Draco continued to stare at her until Violet elbowed him in the gut, snorting.

“Don’t mind him, Daphne. He’s been hanging out with the wrong sort of Slytherins for too long.”

Daphne smirked at this. “Ah, yes. How could I forget, having roomed with Pansy Parkinson for seven long years?”

Violet shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

Draco still felt entirely perplexed by the situation unfolding in front of him, but he was starting to feel that maybe that was a good thing. Because Daphne was right—yes, Luna was eccentric and extremely odd, but she had been perhaps the only non-Slytherin student to have shown genuine kindness to Draco, and Merlin knew he hadn’t deserved it.

His train of thought was interrupted by the swift and, as always, wondrous arrival of the owls. Draco had always loved the sight of the owls as they delivered the mail, their magnificent wings spread wide with various packages and letters held in their talons. The sheer number of them was impressive on its own, and knowing he could always expect a letter or a package from home gave Draco a warm, excited feeling in his stomach every time he saw the birds.

Sure enough, his eagle-owl landed gracefully in front of him, right beside his plate of potatoes, a beige envelope tied to her foot.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured to her, giving her a scratch and offering her a piece of fried potato, which she grabbed with her beak right away, before reaching for the letter. He knew it was from his mother, but there was still something comforting about unfolding the letter and seeing her familiar cursive handwriting.

_My dearest Draco,_

_I was delighted to receive your letter. I am pleased to hear you are making the most of your final year at Hogwarts. I am sure you will continue to excel in your classes, as you always have._

Draco felt his stomach shifting guiltily. He hadn’t confessed his wand troubles with his mother, nor how they had been negatively impacting his school performance. He had told himself it was because he didn’t want her to worry, but truthfully, he was more than a little embarrassed. Narcissa had never been the one to push him about doing well in his classes—that had always been Lucius—but he just couldn’t bear to disappoint her.

_The Manor is undergoing more renovations, as you might expect. Polkey and Cobby have been working day and night, however there is more Dark Magic embedded into the foundation of the Manor than we had expected, so it is taking much longer than I initially thought._

_Perhaps it would be better if you remained at Hogwarts over Christmas this year, my darling. I am aching to see you, however the magic in the Manor is highly unpredictable at this time, and I wouldn’t want it to affect you. I am looking forward to seeing you over Easter, and for you to see all the progress we have made with the Manor._

_All my love,_

_Mother_

Draco felt his heart sink lower and lower into his stomach with every word he read. It must have shown on his face, because Violet immediately asked in a low tone,

“Is everything alright, Draco?”

He quickly folded up the letter and gave Violet a small smile.

“Yes, of course. I simply won’t be back at the Manor for Christmas this year.”

“Oh,” said Violet, a look of understanding crossing her face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” replied Draco, but he allowed her to reach over and squeeze his hand.

“You’re welcome to come and have Christmas dinner with us,” she continued. “Laurel will be back for the holidays as well.”

“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “But I must decline. Christmas is a time for family, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Well, the invitation is open if you change your mind,” Violet insisted.

“Thank you,” Draco replied, tucking the letter into his bag and giving Elpis another little scratch before sending her off to the Hogwarts owlery.

He couldn’t deny he was disappointed. He had been looking forward to escaping the disgusted glares and muttered insults that followed him around Hogwarts like a particularly irritating ghost. He wanted to see his mother and enjoy the Christmas meal prepared by the elves and spend time up in his room reading without worrying about who was around him.

He knew it wouldn’t have been a typical Christmas, what without Lucius at the head of the table and with only two elves left to prepare the meal, but nonetheless, Draco felt down at the prospect of missing it. He had never spent Christmas at Hogwarts—in fact, he had mercilessly mocked the students that did, loudly proclaiming that they had no one who wanted them back home.

And now it was he that was staying at Hogwarts over Christmas, he that wasn’t welcome back at home. Of course, he couldn’t be mad at his Mother, he knew she was only thinking of his best interests. He didn’t imagine it was easy for her either, trying to cleanse the Manor of Dark Magic with only two elves to help. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if it was even possible to remove all the Dark Magic from the Manor, as plenty of it had existed long prior to the Dark Lord taking over the Manor as his headquarters.

But Narcissa was fiercely dedicated to the cause and Draco knew better than to get in her way when she had her mind set on something.

So he was spending Christmas at Hogwarts this year. He tried not to feel too bitter about it; after all, there were plenty of students who had no parents to go back to.

Plenty of those students had lost their parents _to_ Draco’s family members, so really, he had no right feeling bad for himself at all. Feeling oddly angry and sufficiently guilty, Draco bid Violet and Daphne a good day and quickly leaving the Slytherin table before Violet could figure out what was going on in his head.

 *

Draco had to admit the baby Thestrals were quite fascinating. Luna had described them as ‘sweet’, which he wasn’t sure if he agreed with, but there was something special about them.

Their wings were already far bigger than their bodies and they flapped them excitedly when Luna leaned forward to scratch under their scaly necks.

They were able to get a few feet up in the air, but their sense of balance wasn’t fully developed, so they always tumbled to the ground after a few seconds.

“Are you headed home for Christmas, Draco?” Luna asked, smiling in that dreamy way of hers as one of the babies got to its feet after a fall.

“Not this year,” he replied, watching cautiously as another baby Thestral bit at his shoelaces playfully. “Mother is trying to clear out the Manor of Dark magic.”

Luna nodded wisely. “There were an awful lot of Wrackspurts when I was there.”

Draco decided against asking what Wrackspurts were.

“What about you?” he asked, instead.

“Oh, yes,” said Luna. “Dad and I are going to the Burrow this year.”

Draco considered this and, this time, decided to ask.

“What’s the Burrow?”

“It’s the Weasleys’ house. They always have big Christmas celebrations. I was very excited to be invited.”  
Draco could picture it, a whole gang of red-headed Weasleys gathered around a too-small table, tossing presents at each other and laughing.

He immediately felt the urge to make fun of them, to insult, to lash out. But it was accompanied by a surge of jealousy. They would all be together, and he would remain at Hogwarts, alone.

“Hogwarts Christmases are lovely, though.” Luna gave him a warm smile and looked at him in that uncomfortable way of hers, that made him feel like she could see right through him. “The feast is always wonderful and the castle is so peaceful and quiet.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Draco said, realizing how deeply he meant it only once the words left his mouth. “And thank you for inviting me to visit the Thestrals. They really are magnificent.”

Draco watched the baby Thestrals, who had run up to their mothers, who leaned down and nuzzled them, their glossy dark skin almost shining.

Draco had always been slightly fearful of Thestrals, especially once he had been able to see them. He was old enough to know the myths about them being omens of death were simply superstition, but they certainly looked like what omens of death would look like. They were frightening in their reality, the way just seeing them was a reminder of death, of all the deaths one had witnessed.

But seeing the babies changed that. They were clumsy and excitable and their mothers were patient and caring with them.

They were just creatures, living their lives, at peace with the enormous burden the Wizarding World had placed on them.

Before he could change his mind, Draco stepped forward and reached out a hand, gently stroking the silky mane of a nearby male. It let out a low breath and pushed its head further into Draco’s palm.

“Oh, he likes you!” Luna cried, delightedly, and Draco couldn’t help but smile.

He looked at the Thestral, who was staring up at him with his unblinking milky white eyes. Slowly, he let his thin black eyelids shut over his eyes.

“That means he trusts you,” Luna added. Draco looked from her back to the beast, eyes closed and leaning into Draco’s touch, and he felt a surge of _something_ in his stomach, something warm and sharply painful, an ache that buried inside him and took root.

With another look over at Luna, who was petting one of the mothers, he realized it just might be affection.

* 

“I was wondering how you decided on those three cores,” Draco began, tentatively.

“Well, my boy, as you may know, my father and grandfather used various cores, as do wandmakers around the world—cores such as kneazle whiskers or mermaid hair or Thunderbird tail feather—and they can certainly make for suitable wands.” Ollivander gazed off into the distance, something that Draco had by now realized meant he was reminiscing. “In my studies, I found unicorn hair, phoenix feather, and dragon heartstring to produce the most reliable wands with plenty of variety within them. But every wandmaker is different; we all have our own spin on how we produce wands. Alejandro Allegretto, a wonderful wandmaker in Argentina, prizes fairy wings and dragon scales over other cores. Irene Dandridge, an exceptionally talented young wandmaker in Australia, makes wands out of mermaid hair, billywig stingers, and snallygaster heartstring, which make for very different wands and she does an excellent job.”

Draco made a mental note to heavily research more wandmakers around the world.

“Experimenting with cores is a vital part of your education in wandmaking. Were you thinking of any in particular?” Ollivander turned his wide, silvery gaze to Draco.

“Well,” Draco said, slowly. “I was thinking about the trees used for wand woods and how many of them are significant in Muggle culture as well.”

He paused, wondering how to best explain his though process.

“My friend, Violet, takes Muggle Studies,” he said, “and she was telling me about how Muggles often intuitively recognize signs of magic, even if they don’t necessarily understand that it’s magic they’re recognizing. It’s something the Wizard-Muggle Relations office is constantly trying to better understand. So I thought, instead of magical creatures and artefacts, would it be possible to use cores that have magical qualities but are visible and accessible to Muggles as well?”

Ollivander’s eyes were twinkling.

 * 

“What do you look so concentrated over?” Violet said, dropping her bag on the seat across from him with a loud thunk and taking the next seat over for herself.

“I’m making a preliminary list of possible wand cores.” Draco responded, chewing on his lip.

“Ooh!” Violet leaned forward, interestedly. “What have you got so far?”

Draco set aside his quill and looked down at his list. Considering he had been working on it for an hour, it was rather short.

“Python scales, meteor dust, black cat whiskers, owl feathers, volcanic ash, spider silk, bee wings, and raven feathers.”

“Oh, I want to know how the raven feathers work out! My Patronus is a raven,” Violet said. “How are you going to test them?”

“I’m going to give Ollivander my list next time we meet and he’s going to procure samples for me to try. He’s already taught me a lot about how to craft the wand around the core in a way that binds the core to the wood properly. We’ve practiced with his traditional cores, but he wants me to experiment and find my own way of making them.”

“That sounds amazing, Draco.” Violet said with a warm smile. “Good luck with the new cores. I think it’s really cool that you’re considering objects with roles in both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds.”

“Thanks,” Draco said, genuinely. He greatly valued Violet’s opinion and was tremendously grateful he had her to confide in.

“What about you?” he asked. “How’s your apprenticeship going?”

“Oh, it’s been wonderful!” Violet gushed. “Peter even said he was going to take my proposals to his boss.”

“That’s fantastic, congratulations!”

Draco didn’t fully understand everything Violet told him about her apprenticeship, but he knew she was studying under a Squib, Peter Duncan—which was a surprise in and of itself, because Draco had not thought Squibs could see Hogwarts, he thought they were like Muggles—who worked for the Wizard-Muggle Relations office in the Ministry, and she wanted to create more opportunities for Squib integration into Wizarding society.

Looking at Violet excitedly gushing across the table from him, his best friend with a passion for combining Wizarding and Muggle culture and thought to himself: _if only Father could see me now._


	20. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry sat back in his seat and watched Malfoy slowly stir the potion—two turns counter-clockwise, then four clockwise, then repeat six times. He felt somewhat useless, but he had tried to help, even offering to stir, but Malfoy had slapped his hand away dismissively.
> 
> He supposed it was for the best, since Malfoy clearly had a better handle on what they were doing. And he let Harry prepare some of the ingredients, like sifting through the iguana blood or dicing the pixie-weed. Sometimes he’d criticize him for how he was doing it, but Harry came to realize it wasn’t out of malice but rather a side effect of how perfectionistic Malfoy really was. Sometimes he’d even be…kind, if Harry could even believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the late post, the holidays have got me in a major writing slump!! hope you enjoy the chapter, late as it may be!

Ever since the news of his and Ginny’s breakup had spread, Harry had been confronted on almost a daily basis by girls sneaking up on him in order to ask him out.

He had returned to carrying his Invisibility Cloak around with him and sweeping it over himself whenever he heard a group of girls approaching. It was becoming increasingly difficult, however, as some of them had figured out his schedule and would wait for him outside of his classes.

“Honestly, Harry, you can ask them to leave you alone,” Hermione tutted as he pulled off his Cloak in the Transfiguration classroom.

“That never works,” Harry grumbled.

“At least there haven’t been any love potions yet,” said Hermione, brightly.

“Don’t remind me,” groaned Ron.

“Ah, yes, the Romilda Vane incident of Sixth Year,” Sophie nodded, wisely.

The three of them looked at her.

“How’d you know about that?” Ron asked.

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Please, everyone knows about that. Nadine spread it across the entire House. She and Romilda had a bet over whether or not it would work. Of course, Nadine only won on a technicality.”

Ron simply gaped at her.

Since they shared two classes with her, the three of them had become friendlier with Sophie, no one more so than Hermione. Harry found he quite liked her; she was sharp enough to keep up with Hermione, which often kept her from getting frustrated with him and Ron, who weren’t always on the ball, but she was also very funny. She also worked well to balance out any awkwardness that happened to arise between Hermione and Ron, though as time went on, their relationship was shifting back to what it had been like prior to them getting together—Hermione getting mildly irritated at Ron not completing his homework and Ron making ridiculous but often sensible excuses.

“Harry, if you want, I can play fake annoying girlfriend whenever anyone bothers you,” Sophie offers Harry a bright smile.

Despite his annoyance at his current situation, Harry snickered.

“I’ll be sure to take you up on that if it gets worse.”

Sophie batted her eyelashes at him. Ron choked.

*

Harry sat back in his seat and watched Malfoy slowly stir the potion—two turns counter-clockwise, then four clockwise, then repeat six times. He felt somewhat useless, but he had _tried_ to help, even offering to stir, but Malfoy had slapped his hand away dismissively.

He supposed it was for the best, since Malfoy clearly had a better handle on what they were doing. And he let Harry prepare some of the ingredients, like sifting through the iguana blood or dicing the pixie-weed. Sometimes he’d criticize him for how he was doing it, but Harry came to realize it wasn’t out of malice but rather a side effect of how perfectionistic Malfoy really was. Sometimes he’d even be…kind, if Harry could even believe it.

Just a minute ago, Harry had been cutting the Biting Nettle and Malfoy had looked at the plant, then looked up at Harry, and said in a patient but somewhat tired voice, “Potter, what is that you’re cutting?”

“Er…the Biting Nettle?” Harry had responded with a question in his voice.

“And why, do you think, it’s _called_ Biting Nettle?”

Harry had just blinked at him, but before he could even say anything, he felt a sharp pain suddenly rise up in his fingers and on his palms, like he’d been…like he’d been _bitten_ by thousands of tiny, angry leaves.

“Ow,” Harry had winced, holding his hands up to get a good look. “Blimey!”

Small red marks were appearing all over his palms, thousands of miniscule little bite marks. Harry had looked up to find Malfoy was halfway across the room at the storage cabinet, returning swiftly with a bowl that he placed down on their work table.

“Put your hands in that” he’d instructed. Harry had peered into the bowl and found the thick viscous liquid rather familiar—murtlap essence. He’d sunken his hands into the bowl and sighed loudly in relief as the pain ebbed away. He had looked at Malfoy, to say thank you, but he was already back to the potion, pulling on his pair of dragon-hide gloves before finishing Harry’s work of dicing the Biting Nettle.

“Are you daydreaming again, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice brought Harry back to the present and Harry blinked rapidly and looked at him, trying to pretend he had been paying attention. Malfoy snorted, clearly not fooled.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, oh Chosen One,” he said, his eyebrows raised and his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Could you pass the crushed stag horns? And for the love of Circe, do _not_ touch them without wiping your hands.”

Harry grinned, withdrawing his hands from the murtlap essence and wiping them haphazardly on his robes. Malfoy gave him a disgusted look, but Harry just ignored him. He was amazed at how much better his hands were feeling.

“Hey, they’re not scarred at all,” he said, happily, looking at his palms.

“Of course not, you soaked them within thirty seconds of the bites,” Malfoy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The stag horns, Potter.”

Harry dutifully reached over and grabbed a bowl of dark brown powder, which he assumed was what Malfoy wanted. Malfoy didn’t criticize him as he handed over the bowl, so he must have been right.

“My Patronus is a stag,” he said, randomly, watching as Malfoy poured the powder into the potion, which fizzled and let out some white steam.

“Yes, Potter, I know that. Everyone in the Wizarding World knows that.” Malfoy sounded somewhat tired, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice as well.

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling rather foolish. “Well, what’s yours?”

Malfoy mumbled something, reaching for the stirring rod.

“What was that?” asked Harry, and he noticed that Malfoy’s face was becoming somewhat pink.

“I said I don’t know,” he snapped. “I’ve never produced a corporeal Patronus.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He hadn’t even thought about that. He should have, honestly, it wasn’t as if Patronuses were in the Hogwarts curriculum; many fully-grown adults didn’t even know how to cast one.

Before he realized what he was saying, though, he had blurted out, “I can teach you, if you want.”

Malfoy’s head instantly turned to stare at him.

“I don’t need your charity, Potter,” he sneered.

“It’s not charity,” Harry responded instantly. “You’d be doing me a favour.”

“Oh?” Malfoy’s voice was still hard and cold. “And how’s that?”

“I’m apprenticing to be a professor,” Harry said, easily. It surprised him how willing he suddenly was to share all this personal information, with Draco Malfoy of all people.

Malfoy looked at him, and Harry was pleased to see he looked more confused than angry.

“I thought you wanted to be an Auror,” he said.

Harry shook his head. “Nope, professor. And Ashworth wants me to find someone to tutor, as practice.”

Malfoy’s face seemed to betray an internal conflict. He looked curious, but at the same time, he _was_ Malfoy, and it wouldn’t be like him to go this long without an insult.

“Find someone else, Potter, I’m not your guinea pig.”

“I’m aware of that, Malfoy,” Harry snapped back. “The problem is I don’t know how much I’ll be helping anyone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I…” Harry paused, trying to think of a good way to put it so as not to give Malfoy more of a reason to taunt him. “I need to know if I’m a good teacher. And some…some people might not be…honest about that.”

Malfoy snorted, his attention once again on the potion, which had turned a lovely chocolate colour.

“Your fan club won’t care about what you’re teaching, more about who’s doing the teaching.”

“Exactly,” Harry confirmed with a grimace.

“Alright, Potter,” Malfoy said, and Harry could barely believe it. “You can teach me.”

“Really?” asked Harry, disbelievingly.

“Sure,” Malfoy shrugged, and then gave Harry a devious look. “But you’ll owe me.”

“I—what?”

“You heard me. You said it yourself, I’m doing you a favour here. So, I let you teach me, and then you’ll owe me.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him, trying to figure out what scheme he was up to. But then he reminded himself of what Hermione had said, about giving the Slytherins a second chance, and after all, he _was_ in need of someone to teach, so he let it go.

“Alright, deal.”

*

“Malfoy? You picked _Malfoy?_ ” Ron looked both incredulous and disgusted.

“I know, I know, it’s mad, but he agreed and there _is_ stuff I could teach him.”

“Provided he doesn’t hex you the second you’re alone in a room together,” mumbled Ron.

Harry gave him a look. “I think I’ve proved I can take on Draco Malfoy in a duel.”

“Fair point,” Ron grinned. It seemed a simple jab at Malfoy was enough to prove to Ron that Harry had not in fact lost his marbles.

So Harry looked over to Hermione, who had been suspiciously silent.

“Hermione?” he asked. “What do you think?”

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, looking thoughtful.

“I’m not sure,” she finally said, looking like the words had been painful to say. “He does seem very different this year, but…with your history, I just don’t know. You’ve always known exactly how to get under each other’s skin.”

Harry sighed. She was right; he knew she was right, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. Malfoy had been a lot easier to work with recently, but that wasn’t any sort of guarantee that he would be responsive to Harry’s instruction. In Potions, he had the higher ground, since he was the one who knew what he was doing. This would be different and Harry knew Malfoy would not be an easy student.

He started to wonder if this was a good idea after all.

*

“I think that’s an _excellent_ idea, Harry!” Ashworth exclaimed. “He’ll have to work around his apprenticeship of course, but Mr Malfoy seems to be an incredibly dedicated student, so I’m sure that won’t be a problem. How often do you plan to meet?”

“Er, I dunno,” Harry admitted, a bit thrown by Ashworth’s unexpected enthusiasm. “I guess we’ll decide after we see how the first meeting goes.”

Waya, who was joining them for today’s session, was watching Harry carefully, in almost the same way Dumbledore used to, like he could sense something about him, though the eyes that trained him now were a dark chestnut brown instead of a twinkling blue.

“To be honest,” Harry sighed, thinking he may as well confess. “Malfoy and I don’t exactly have the friendliest history.”

Waya’s unreadable expression didn’t change, but Ashworth gave a small chuckle.

“I’m well aware of your turbulent relationship,” he said in an assuring voice. “Professor McGonagall has given me the highlights.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. The war was one thing, but the previous six years of mostly petty antics between him and Malfoy were another. He had always seen Malfoy as somewhat of a nemesis, but in comparison to everything that had happened last year, it all seemed sort of childish.

“It will be up to the two of you to conduct yourselves professionally, of course,” Ashworth was saying, “however I think the additional challenge would be good for you. Teaching isn’t easy, and you’re never going to have a classroom consisting of only well-behaving, respectful pupils.”

Waya nodded at this, and spoke in his rough voice, “My father always told me the two most crucial elements to being a good teacher, much like being an efficient leader, are patience and kindness.”

Well, thought Harry, Malfoy was definitely going to test his patience.


	21. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco stretched out in his bed and sat up, feeling warm. He allowed himself a minute to wake up fully and get his brain working properly before drawing his bedcurtains and hopping out of bed. He dressed quickly and head into the bathroom to wash up. He found himself excited to get to breakfast. He supposed it was simply a force of habit, it was as if his body knew it was Christmas Day and started preparing him for it.
> 
> Of course, this Christmas would be very different. He wouldn’t walk downstairs to find his parents waiting for him with several beautifully wrapped presents. He wouldn’t levitate the silver star to sit on top of the tree, or eat the magnificent Christmas feast prepared by the elves, or listen to his mother sing along to Celestina Warbeck on the wireless.
> 
> As he walked down the stairs from the dormitories, he tried to keep an open mind. He still felt a warm, happy sort of feeling in his stomach, and he was determined to make the most of this Christmas, however untraditional it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all,  
> once again, I must apologize for the lateness of this chapter. I'm returning home in four days and hopefully then will have more time to dedicate to writing. that being said, this chapter is a little longer than the past few so I hope that somewhat makes up for it.  
> quick note:  
> Draco's eagle owl, Elpis, is named after the Greek personification and spirit of hope.

Draco had never seen the castle so empty. He had been expecting it, of course, but the reality of how quiet the halls would be, of how sad the Great Hall looked with only a smattering of students dispersed around its long House tables, hadn’t really hit Draco until he arrived for breakfast.

Having never spent Christmas at Hogwarts before, Draco didn’t have anything to compare it to, but if he had to guess, he would suppose there were more students staying at the castle than previous years, so no reason other than the war having taken many of their family members from them.

Draco could only hope that those students who felt it necessary to take justice into their own hands—which they did by aiming hexes at Draco’s back—had been on that morning’s Hogwarts Express.

He began surveying the Slytherin table in what he believed to be a futile effort to find someone to sit with for breakfast. His eyes landed upon Theo, who was looking down at his plate rather morosely.

The two hadn’t spoken much since the very embarrassing snakeweed incident on Theo’s birthday, but he was still Draco’s friend and he felt bad about just up and ignoring him simply because of an awkward moment.

So he walks over, and plops his bag down, taking a seat across from Theo, who looks up at the sound.

“Draco,” his face transforms into a smile. “I forgot you were staying over Christmas.”

“I forgot you were as well.” Draco admits, sheepishly. He feels a prickle of guilt wash over him. Of course Theo would be staying. Both of his parents were dead.

But Theo was still smiling.

“I need to go to Hogsmeade this week,” Draco began carefully, monitoring Theo’s face for his reaction. “I have to pick up a gift for Mother. Would you like to join me?”

He winced a bit, realizing again he had just brought up an insensitive topic by discussing his mother, but the gentle smile remained on Theo’s face. Perhaps Draco was walking on eggshells for no reason.

“I would love to. I should get something for my grandmother as well.”

The tension sufficiently relieved, Draco felt his shoulders relax and he speared a chunk of fruit with his fork.

“Are any of your roommates here over the holidays?” Theo asked, taking a small bite of toast.

Draco began shaking his head, but then paused. “Actually, yes, I think so. Tall bloke, dark hair, bit of a bookworm. His trunk was still there this morning. I think his name is River or Rivers or something.”

“Oliver Rivers,” Theo nodded, and at Draco’s questioning look, followed up with, “He’s in my History of Magic class. Quiet sort, very private.”

Draco nodded as though he agreed, not that he had made a real effort to get to know his Ravenclaw roommates. They hadn’t made much of an effort either, but he didn’t mind. He much preferred being ignored to being hexed.

“What about yours?” he asked.

“Well, Blaise is gone, as you know. Two of the Hufflepuffs as well. Finch-Fletchely stayed.”

Draco, who knew that Finch-Fletchely was a Muggleborn, didn’t ask more. He could guess why Finch-Fletchely was staying, and he’d rather not have to say it out loud.

A beat passed, where Theo and Draco chewed in silence and Draco felt his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“How is your apprenticeship going?” Theo asked. Draco hadn’t told Theo the truth about his apprenticeship—he had only entrusted that information with Violet—but he jumped at the opportunity to change the subject.

“Oh, it’s excellent. I didn’t expect it to be so engaging, nor did I expect to have as much choice in my instruction.” The answer was vague, he knew, but at least this way, he remained honest. “What about yours?”

“It’s…challenging,” Theo replies, slowly. “Whitewater is no joke.”

“No, I imagine he’s not,” says Draco. Gabriel Whitewater was one of the greatest Potioneers alive. Even Snape—who had always been notoriously hard to impress—had spoken of him with great respect. Draco had been amazed McGonagall had gotten him to agree to mentor a student at all.

“But I suppose I shouldn’t complain about high expectations. He’s demanding, but there’s no doubt that it’s working.”

“What potions have you brewed?”

“He wanted me to practice making the most popular potions first, so it’s been a lot of Dreamless Sleep and Pepper-Up for the first few months, but recently we’ve been doing more complex ones. Felix Felicis and Veritaserum. We’re meant to start Polyjuice once the new year starts. We were meant to do Amortentia, but apparently we’ll have to brew that for our N.E.W.T.s so regular Potions class will cover it.”

Draco’s eyes were wide. “Those are some highly controlled Potions.”

Theo shrugged. “Many of the ingredients are regulated, so it’s not like I can brew them on my own, but I need to know how to brew them before I apply for a license for my own Apothecary.”

“So is that what you want to do after Hogwarts? Open an Apothecary?” asked Draco.

Theo nodded enthusiastically. “Whitewater considers it to be _unambitious_ , but not everyone can study experimental potions. I think I would enjoy having a store, brewing for a living. It’s relaxing, potion-making.”

“I know what you mean,” Draco nodded. “I considered apprenticing in it too.”

“Why didn’t you?” Theo asked, and Draco could tell he’d been waiting to ask this question for a while now. “I always thought you would. I mean, you were always Snape’s favourite, always top of the class.”

“Second in the class,” Draco corrected with a smirk. “Don’t forget about Granger.”  
  
Granger’s success in school had always infuriated Draco, especially since his father never let him forget how a Muggleborn had bested him in every subject, but now, he simply couldn’t find any anger left in him for her.

Theo took the point with a small smile of his own.

“Still,” he continued. “Transfiguration?”

Draco shifted in his seat a bit.

“It’s a good base subject,” he said, truthfully. “I know it’s not as specialized, but it lets me keep my options open. I just couldn’t see myself as a Potioneer, no matter how much I enjoy brewing.”

“That makes sense,” Theo nodded and Draco felt himself release a small breath of relief.

It was odd, this feeling—how uncomfortable he suddenly was at telling even the most insignificant of lies. He’d never had a problem with it before, smoothly lying without a problem to get himself in or out of any situation, as necessary.

Maybe it was because Theo was a friend. Or maybe he had been spending too much time with Luna, and her blunt honesty was rubbing off on him. Or maybe—most likely—since he had lied so much in the past and it had all ended rather catastrophically, his subconscious was deciding not to let him do it anymore.

Draco just hoped his subconscious wouldn’t land him in more trouble.

*

The trip Draco and Theo took to Hogsmeade four days later turned out to be a success, despite a few moments of awkwardness.

Theo had first wanted to visit Tomes & Scrolls to pick up a book for his grandmother. When Draco had spotted him walking towards the till with Bathilda Bagshot’s _Omens, Oracles, & the Goat, _he raised an eyebrow.

Theo had just groaned.

“Don’t ask,” he had said, but elaborated anyway. “She’s recently gotten into Bagshot’s books. I don’t know why, she’s always saying something about ‘discovering every side of wizarding history’.”

Draco had shrugged, an amused expression on his face. However odd her taste in reading material may be, he was glad Theo’s grandmother seemed to be close enough to Theo to warrant gift-giving. At least he wasn’t completely alone.

After that, Draco had agonized over a rack of scarves in Gladrags Wizardwear for over twenty minutes, weighing the benefits of silk versus cashmere, until Theo had had enough and simply grabbed one at random. As Draco had handed over the coins for it, he decided the right choice had been made—Mother would appreciate the softness of the silk, and the pale blue colour would match her eyes.

Theo had then insisted they stop at Honeydukes, which Draco had rolled his eyes at, but he ended up finding a glass case of sugared violets that he was sure his mother would love and even bought a few Chocolate Frogs for himself. Theo, who had more than a single sweet tooth, practically had to be dragged out, carrying a rather large bag of various chocolates and sweets.

“What do you say then, old chap?” Theo said, clapping Draco on the back and squeezing his shoulder. “Fancy a Butterbeer?”

“Alright then,” Draco acquiesced, unsure if the pink in his cheeks could be blamed solely on the brisk weather.

It was only after they had walked into the Three Broomsticks that Draco realized why this was actually a horrible idea.

Madam Rosmerta stood behind the bar, her curly hair bouncing as she talked animatedly with a patron.

Draco froze in the doorway.

“Draco?” Theo looked back when he realized he was several steps ahead. “You alright?”

“I don’t think we should—” he started in a low tone, and then Rosmerta’s face turned to them. Draco felt his body go rigid, his stomach lurching uncomfortably.

Theo looked from him to Rosmerta, as the two stared at each other, and his face changed as realization dawned on him.

“Oh, Draco, I’m sorry, I…” he trailed off, seeming to be at a loss for what to say. Draco’s body was still unmoving and he felt his pulse quicken. He couldn’t identify his emotions; they were coming at him too fast. He knew there was guilt—there was always guilt. Remorse. Regret. Anger.

Rosmerta, however, seemed to regain her composure much quicker. She cleared her throat and said, “Do come in, boys, and close the door behind you; you’re letting the cold in.”

It took Draco a moment to process this, so Theo grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward until Draco found himself closer to the bar, almost face to face with the barmaid.

“Madam Rosmerta,” he began quietly, having absolutely no idea where he was going. “I am so…I really must…” he floundered. Saying ‘sorry’ was simply not enough. Could one really just apologize for casting an Unforgivable? There was a reason they were called Unforgivable Curses after all. No apologies could possibly make up for them.

“If you’d like me to leave, I would more than understand,” he finally said, looking down.

Rosmerta made a tutting sound.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You’re just a boy. Go on then and have a seat, I’ll be right over to get your order.”

Draco looked up at her and saw her eyebrows furrowed and a look of something like…concern in her eyes. Not fully comprehending, Draco just nodded and turned to follow Theo, who had found a table for them to sit at.

Draco found himself speechless, but luckily, Theo didn’t press. Rosmerta came around to get their orders, and, as Draco was still having trouble forming words, Theo ordered two Butterbeers. As she walked away, Draco faced Theo.

“How can she do that?” he asked, his voice so low he was practically whispering. “How can she just…forgive that?”

Theo’s face was achingly sympathetic.

“I don’t know if it’s forgiveness, Draco,” he said, softly. “I think it’s…understanding.”

“Understanding of what?”

Theo gave a little shrug with one shoulder.

“You were young,” he said, like it was that simple, and Draco couldn't help but feel slightly incensed.

“That’s no excuse,” he retorted, bitterly. “You were young, too.”

“I was in France. I was lucky.”

Draco looked into Theo’s eyes and felt his own gaze turn into a glare.

“Potter was young,” he muttered.

Theo paused, clearly not having expected that. His expression became somewhat more serious.

“Potter was told from a very young age what his role in the war would be by adults he trusted, and he played that role. You did exactly the same.”

“I was wrong,” Draco spat, resentfully. He knew it wasn’t Theo’s fault of course. The trouble was there wasn’t anyone he could adequately pin the blame onto. He had heard from Luna, from Ollivander even, that he couldn’t help how he was raised. Ollivander’s words constantly rang in his head: _“We are all products of our childhoods.”_

So his parents, surely, held some of the blame. They had raised him to believe in blood purity, to believe in the inferiority of Muggleborns, that Muggles had oppressed them for hundreds of years and it was time to finally fight back. Father had gone on and on about how Muggleborns were stealing magic from “real” wizards. Of course Draco had believed it. He believed everything his Father had told him.

He had been in for a rude awakening later on.

But he couldn’t put it all on his parents. He had been sixteen when he had taken the Dark Mark. Nearly of age. Practically an adult. And yes, it had been terrifying and painful and he had regretted it almost instantly, but he had still made the decision to do it.

 _It wasn’t really your decision,_ a little voice in his head chimed in, unhelpfully. _Your father’s reputation, his life was on the line. His loyalty was questioned. He threatened you at wandpoint._

It was all too complicated. Yes, of course he had been under pressure, of course he had been threatened, certainly he had been worried about his parents. But it had been _his_ choice to follow the Dark Lord’s commands, even if he was only doing it to protect his parents. However reluctant he may have been, he was still the one who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He was directly responsible for all the lives those Death Eaters had taken.

It was _his_ fault.

“Yes,” Theo said, his eyes watching Draco closely. “You were wrong. A lot of people were. But you went to trial. You were judged and you were sentenced and you are paying the price for it.”

“I’m only on probation,” Draco argued. “It isn’t like I’m in Azkaban or anything.”

Theo paused again, and his expression softened.

“Do you think you deserve to be?” he asked, quietly.

Draco didn’t quite know the answer to that.

*

On Christmas morning, Draco woke up with his chest feeling much lighter than it had in months. He had spent the previous night wrapping his mother’s gifts before sending them off, along with a letter, with Elpis. The eagle owl had seemed quite happy to have something to deliver and Draco felt another little pinch of guilt.

Elpis used to always be rather busy, bringing Draco gifts from his mother on an almost daily basis, and taking his letters of reply back. This year had been different. Narcissa had been keeping herself busy with the great purging of the Manor, so Draco had only received a handful of letters since the beginning of term. Elpis, of course, didn’t know why she wasn't being utilized as much anymore, and she regularly visited Draco in the mornings when mail arrived, even if she wasn’t bringing him anything.

Draco stretched out in his bed and sat up, feeling warm. He allowed himself a minute to wake up fully and get his brain working properly before drawing his bedcurtains and hopping out of bed. He dressed quickly and head into the bathroom to wash up. He found himself excited to get to breakfast. He supposed it was simply a force of habit, it was as if his body knew it was Christmas Day and started preparing him for it.

Of course, this Christmas would be very different. He wouldn’t walk downstairs to find his parents waiting for him with several beautifully wrapped presents. He wouldn’t levitate the silver star to sit on top of the tree, or eat the magnificent Christmas feast prepared by the elves, or listen to his mother sing along to Celestina Warbeck on the wireless.

As he walked down the stairs from the dormitories, he tried to keep an open mind. He still felt a warm, happy sort of feeling in his stomach, and he was determined to make the most of this Christmas, however untraditional it was.

He hopped off the last step and surveyed the eighth year common room. At first glance, it looked empty, but as he walked towards the brick wall where the entrance was hidden, he saw his roommate—Oliver Rivers, he reminded himself—sitting in one of the grey armchairs, his legs tucked closely and a book in his hands. He looked up at the sound and made eye contact with Draco.

Draco paused, unsure what to do, and then smiled, unsurely.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Rivers looked confused for a moment, but then smiled in return.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, before turning back to his book.

Draco decided this was a victory.

He arrived at breakfast a little bit late, so Theo was already seated and eating, and Draco walked over to sit across from him.

Theo greeted him warmly, and immediately insisted he try some of the pigs in a blanket, despite his preference of avoiding carbohydrates in the morning.

Draco didn’t argue, and loaded two of the little sausages onto his plate. He had only just started eating when the owls began flying in. It wasn’t nearly the massive amount of birds that normally arrived in the mornings to deliver the mail, but Draco still found the sight impressive.

A screech owl landed heavily in front of Theo, dropping a rather large package by his plate. Theo looked rather amused and gave the owl a bit of toast before sending it off.

“It’s from Grandmother,” he said to Draco and began to unwrap it.

While he was still ripping brown paper off, Elpis arrived as well, carrying a small parcel and an envelope. Draco reached out to untie her and offered her a piece of sausage, which she snatched up with her beak quickly. He stroked her soft feathers and murmured to her, “Sorry you haven’t been sent home much this year. I’ll try to send more letters.”

She hooted happily and flew off.

Draco looked over at Theo, who had finally pulled his present loose from its wrapping. He was looking at it with great interest, and Draco craned his neck to try and take a look.

“What is it?” he asked and Theo raised it so he could get a proper look.

“It’s a Wizard’s Chess set,” he replied, holding up a pawn, made of a delicate blue stone of some sort. “It’s made of celestite.”

Draco held a hand out and Theo dropped the pawn into his palm so he could look closer.

“It’s beautiful,” said Draco, honestly.

“We should play a game later.”

Draco grinned. “You really want to lose your first game with a new set?”

Theo laughed. “Go on then, open yours.”

Draco looked back in front of him, at the small parcel and letter that sat by his place. He reached for the envelope, wanting to read his mother’s letter first.

_My dearest Draco,_

_Thank you, my love, for your wonderful gifts. The scarf was especially lovely; I am proud to have raised a son with such excellent taste. The sugared violets look delicious, I will have to stop myself from devouring them all tonight._

_I hope you are well, dear. I am sorry we were not able to spend Christmas as a family together this year. I have been permitted to visit your father later tonight, escorted by a group of Aurors. I requested that you be allowed to Floo to the Manor and join us, but I was told it would be a violation of your probation. Codswallop, if you ask me. I will pass on your love to your father, of course._

_I know that things are complicated now, Draco, and I am so sorry we have let you down. Please know that I want only the best for you. You are the greatest treasure of my life, and I am overwhelmingly proud to be your mother._

_The last few years have been difficult and it only recently occurred to me that we didn’t adequately celebrate your seventeenth birthday the summer before last. A wizard’s seventeenth birthday is an important occasion, and yours passed in a time of war._

_This is the reason behind your Christmas gift this year. It is traditionally a gift given to a witch or wizard on their seventeenth birthday, but since you didn’t receive it then, here it is, over a year late. It is a Black heirloom that once belonged to my cousin, Regulus, and I truly hope you like it. You often remind me of him._

_Remember, my love, while you are certainly a Malfoy, you are also a Black._

_All my love,_

_Mother_

Draco blinked at the letter, surprised at how emotional his mother’s words had him.

“You alright, Draco?” Theo asked, furrowing his eyebrows at him.

“Yeah,” Draco nodded, swallowing hard to prevent any tears from sneaking up. He folded up the letter and tucked it back into its envelope before reaching for the parcel and opening it up. He drew in a sharp breath as soon as he saw it.

It was a watch—of course—but it was a _stunning_ watch, with a pale grey dial and shiny black hour and minute hands that glistened under the Christmas lights that hung in the air.

Circling around the dial were miniscule planets and the moon, displaying their orbit. The band was black and as Draco traced a finger across it, he determined it must have been made from dragon hide.

It was in remarkably good shape for being an heirloom and Draco picked it up gently. The face was cool and thin and as he touched the back lightly with his fingers, he could feel there was some sort of inscription. He turned it over and found the letters _R. A. B._ engraved into the silver.

“Regulus Black,” he murmured to himself. He hadn't known much about his mother's cousin, only seeing his face in ancestry books of the noble House of Black. All he really knew about him was that he had been Sirius Black's younger brother, however unlike his elder brother, his portrait had not been scratched off of the page.

“Er, Draco?” Theo asked, prompting Draco to look up at him and see an unfamiliar owl standing in the middle of the table between them.

“Oh, hello,” he said to the owl, who had a long, slim box and a rolled up note tied to his talons. “Are you here for me?”

The owl hooted and Draco reached over to untie the parcel before the bird got too impatient. As soon as he was free, the owl took flight, before Draco even had a chance to offer him a treat.

“Who is that from?” Theo asked.

Draco shrugged, looking at the box curiously. “I haven’t a clue. I wasn’t expecting anything from anyone else.”

He unrolled the note to find neat, cursive writing on it, and began reading.

_Mr Malfoy,_

_I am certain that you will soon be more than capable of crafting your very own wand, however as I’ve become familiar with your magic over the past several months, I took the liberty of making one for you. I know you have been struggling in classes with your current wand, and you are far too talented a wizard to be held back by an inefficient wand. Consider this a temporary placeholder until you are fully qualified to design your own wand. As a small assignment for you over the holidays, try and determine the wood and core of this new wand. I will test you on it when our sessions resume._

_Best,_

_Garrick Ollivander_

Draco felt his breath catch in his throat. No. There was no way. But as he reached for the box, which he now saw looked exactly the same as wand boxes Ollivander sold his wands in, he could feel the anticipation rising up inside him. He opened the box tentatively and withdrew the wand from within.

He held it in his hand and felt a rush of magic run through him, as if it was connecting him to his new wand. The length was far more comfortable; at a quick glance, it looked to be about eleven inches. It was a warm colour, relatively light but not as pale as aspen or poplar. He supposed it could be sycamore, though it was a bit redder than a sycamore wand should be. He wouldn’t be able to figure out the core until he experimented with it a bit.

“Is that a new wand?” Theo asked, looking over curiously.

Draco nodded, still overwhelmed at the generous gift he had just received.

“Why do you have a new wand?”

Draco looked up and found himself making a decision in his head within a second.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, quietly. “Confidentially?”

Theo furrowed his eyebrows, clearly puzzled. “Of course.”

“It’s about my apprenticeship. I’m not really studying Transfiguration.”


	22. Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, yes. The two used to be great friends, of course, as all the founders had been. It was only after Slytherin descended into a state of deep paranoia and madness about Muggleborns that the two had their infamous falling out. Thus began the centuries-long rivalry between the two Houses. I’m sure that two founders would be rather impressed that you and Draco have kept that spirit alive amongst yourselves.”
> 
> Waya had a smile playing at his lips, and Harry felt a hot flush creeping up his neck. It wasn’t only him and Malfoy. Gryffindor and Slytherin students simply hated each other on principle.
> 
> Didn’t they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very late, I know. I have no excuses. just hope you enjoy <3

Surprisingly enough, Harry felt sufficiently refreshed when he returned to Hogwarts in the new year. He hadn’t expected much when he had left with Ron for the Burrow, remembering the summer and how much time he had spent just sleeping.

But it had turned out to be more enjoyable than he thought. Andromeda had brought Teddy around for Christmas dinner and the baby had delighted everyone by Metamorphasing his hair to match whoever was holding him.

Hermione had arrived after spending some time with her parents, and Luna and her father had also been invited for Christmas dinner. George had been in far better spirits than he had been that summer, and even joined the rest of them outside for a few games of Quidditch.

January was set to have several Quidditch scouts arriving at Hogwarts for recruitments, so Ginny had insisted she get as much practice as she possibly could.

Ron had just been happy to play again, and Harry had found he had rather missed flying—though the Weasley brooms didn’t have much on his old Firebolt.

Arriving back at Hogwarts still gave Harry the feeling of coming home, but it also had him feeling somewhat nervous.

He had sent Malfoy an owl asking if they could have their first session the week term began again and had received a brief response:

_That would be sufficient._

_D.M._

He supposed that was good enough, but he couldn’t help but begin to doubt his decision once again. There was no love lost between him and Malfoy, and he wasn’t completely sure that this endeavor wouldn’t end in thrown hexes.

He tried to remind himself of what Waya had told him, about patience and kindness, but Harry had trouble associated Malfoy with either of those virtues.

Hermione had had a point—as she usually did—when she said that he and Malfoy always knew how to really get to each other.

But they were managing to somewhat work together in their Potions classes, and Malfoy was nowhere near as snarky and insulting as Harry had previously known him to be. He could only hope that that attitude continued during their lessons together.

There was also the matter of finding a place for them to meet. Automatically, the Room of Requirement had popped into Harry’s head, but he didn’t even know if the Room had recovered. Belatedly, he also thought that Malfoy probably wouldn’t want to revisit a place where one of his closest friends died. Feeling a sense of guilt rise up in him, he decided he would ask Ashworth to help him find an empty classroom they could meet in.

He had also started thinking about what he would start their lessons off with. He knew he had promised to teach Malfoy how to cast a Patronus, but he didn’t want to start with that, for fear that once Malfoy could do it, he’d have to reason to stick around and learn anymore.

He also wasn’t sure how much of what he has to teach will be new information to Malfoy. After all, teaching the D.A. was one thing—they had been teenagers with an inefficient teacher—but Malfoy had fought through the war, just as he had, and had probably been taught a whole number of complex—and Dark—spells by his terrifying aunt Bellatrix.

All in all, Harry was probably thinking far too much about the lessons with Malfoy. He had asked Hermione for advice on which spells to start with, and she had given them one of those looks with her eyebrows furrowed and the side of her mouth bending into a frown that made him feel like she was analysing him.

She had also given him decent advice though, so at least he didn’t feel completely unprepared about his upcoming challenge. And Malfoy certainly would be a challenge, just as Ashworth had said.

It seemed there was nothing more to be done about it, besides arrange a location and do his best not to allow his head to fill up with self-doubt.

The former would certainly be preferable to the latter, so he made sure to ask Ashworth about it at their first meeting after the holidays.

“I thought you might ask, Harry, so I’ve actually gone ahead and set up an area for you to practice and study.”

At Harry’s slight look of surprise, Ashworth smirked. “Yes, don’t forget that there will be studying involved, with _you_ in charge of overseeing it.”

Harry tried his best not to flush. “Yes, sir, Hermione made sure I understood that loud and clear.”

Ashworth grinned. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“So which classroom is it?” Harry asked.

“It isn’t a classroom,” Ashworth gave him a little smirk. “It hasn’t been used in several years. You may remember it form your first year. Professor McGonagall has informed me of your adventure with the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, memories of flying keys and a monstrous three-headed dog flashed in his brain.

“The third-floor corridor on the right-hand side,” he said, more as a statement than a question, but Ashworth nodded at him nonetheless.

“Good memory,” Waya said from the corner, where he’d been sitting silently until now.

Harry grinned at him.

“Hard to forget seeing a face stick out of the back of someone’s head when you’re eleven, sir.”

“Yes, I’m sure it must be,” Waya said, with a gruff sort of laugh. “But please, save the sir for Professor Ashworth here.”

Ashworth rolled his eyes good-naturedly at him. “You Americans are so casual.”

“And you Brits are so stiff,” Waya countered with a raised eyebrows, before turning to Harry. “I was thinking for the rest of this session, we could focus on something a little different.”

Harry was immediately interested. He had only had one session with Waya before the Christmas holidays, which had been about methods of instruction, and he was eager for more.

Ashworth was an excellent professor, but Waya had such power in his magic, it could almost rival Dumbledore’s.

“I believe that’s my cue to leave,” Ashworth said, with a warm smile. “I’ll be off grading papers. Waya, send a Patronus should you need anything.”

Waya nodded at him firmly and Harry bid him goodbye as Ashworth walked out of the door, leaving the two of them in his office.

“How are you feeling about your upcoming lessons with Draco?” Waya asked, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m not sure,” Harry said, honestly. “I’ve made a list of spells and duelling strategies to start with, so I do feel prepared. I know Professor Ashworth is counting on me to do well, but Malfoy and I have a pretty rocky history. I don’t know if it’s enough just to know what I’m going to teach.”

Waya looked at him curiously.

“From what I hear, you and Draco have been rivals since your first year.”

“Gryffindor and Slytherin have the biggest House rivalry in the school,” Harry said, even though he knew that was a gross oversimplification of his relationship with Malfoy.

Waya smirked. “Ah, yes. I found it very interesting how those two Houses have retained the famous enmity their respective founders had for each other.

“You mean Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin?” asked Harry.

He vaguely remembered Hermione saying something about the two male Hogwarts founders hating each other, and that a fight between them was what drove Slytherin away from the school, and that Harry really ought to read _Hogwarts: A History._

“Yes, yes. The two used to be great friends, of course, as all the founders had been. It was only after Slytherin descended into a state of deep paranoia and madness about Muggleborns that the two had their infamous falling out. Thus began the centuries-long rivalry between the two Houses. I’m sure that two founders would be rather impressed that you and Draco have kept that spirit alive amongst yourselves.”

Waya had a smile playing at his lips, and Harry felt a hot flush creeping up his neck. It wasn’t  _only_ him and Malfoy. Gryffindor and Slytherin students simply hated each other on principle.

Didn’t they?

  
“We’re not at each other’s throats as much this year,” he said, defensively.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Waya said, his voice becoming more serious again. “Nothing wrong with some healthy rivalry, of course, but I find it’s never good to pit children against each other at an early age.”

Harry shrugged. “I guess not. It does get taken a little far sometimes, but that’s how it’s always been. Were the Houses at Ilvermorny different?”

Waya considered this for a long moment before answering.

“The Houses of Ilvermorny represent parts of a whole. Horned Serpent—the mind; Thunderbird—the soul; Wampus—the body; Pukwudgie—the heart. Each vitally important, but best results come from all parts working together. That isn’t to say there isn’t any competition between the Houses—there certainly is. But overall, students from different Houses are encouraged to cooperate with each other, share their skills, in order to create harmony and balance. Professor McGonagall has been pushing for stronger House unity here at Hogwarts as well this year, especially because of how Slytherin House has been suffering.”

Harry felt a prickle of annoyance at that. _Slytherin_ was suffering? Everyone else had stayed behind and fought in the Battle, while Slytherins had run. Slytherin was the House of the Death Eaters, the House of _Voldemort._

And yes, while a voice—sounding suspiciously like Hermione’s—rung in the back of Harry’s head, reminding him that not _all_ Slytherins had been Death Eaters, he still didn’t think he should be feeling sorry for them.

“All the Houses have been suffering,” he said, shortly. “We just fought a war.”

Waya gave him that look again, that made Harry feel as if he were being x-rayed.

“That is without question. The students of Hogwarts are all recovering from the events of last year. However, it seems to me that—for Slytherin House—the war has not yet ended.”

Harry didn’t quite know what that meant.


	23. Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know! Honestly, I wish more people were as curious as you. The wizarding world is so ignorant on all things Muggle, they think they’re all quaint and stupid, but the fact that they’ve done so much without magic is madly impressive, in my opinion.”
> 
> Silently, Draco agreed with her. He couldn’t believe he had lived his entire life without knowing anything about the people he had been taught to hate. He had constantly been told they were useless and pathetic, and all the while they had been inventing ingenious substitutions to magic. He felt like he’d been lied to.
> 
> “Muggles don’t know about magic because they’re purposefully kept in the dark, but wizards don’t know about Muggles because they choose not to,” Violet was saying, more to herself than to Draco. “I bet none of them even know that the Americans have been to the moon.”
> 
> “The Americans have what?” Draco burst out, staring at Violet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sessions with Harry and Draco have FINALLy begun!! yes, when I tagged this slow burn, I meant a S L O W B U R N. we're making moves tho !!

“That’s rather clever,” Draco said without thinking and then immediately felt himself blush with embarrassment. He was much better about acknowledging the ingenuity of Muggles these days, but there was still this part of him that instinctively felt peculiar when he spoke these thoughts aloud.

Violet just waved her hand dismissively.

“I know! Honestly, I wish more people were as curious as you. The wizarding world is so ignorant on all things Muggle, they think they’re all quaint and stupid, but the fact that they’ve done so much _without_ magic is madly impressive, in my opinion.”

Silently, Draco agreed with her. He couldn’t believe he had lived his entire life without knowing anything about the people he had been taught to hate. He had constantly been told they were useless and pathetic, and all the while they had been inventing ingenious substitutions to magic. He felt like he’d been lied to.

“Muggles don’t know about magic because they’re purposefully kept in the dark, but wizards don’t know about Muggles because they _choose_ not to,” Violet was saying, more to herself than to Draco. “I bet none of them even know that the Americans have been to the moon.”

“The Americans have _what?_ ” Draco burst out, staring at Violet. She looked at him as if just realizing he was there and her plump lips spread into a broad grin.

“Oh, I _knew_ it, I _knew_ no one would know!” she cried, sounding far too delighted.

“Explain!” demanded Draco. “What do you mean they’ve _been_ to the moon? That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not,” said Violet, sounding much too smug. “I’m not telling you any more. You’ll have to find this one out by yourself.”

Draco gaped at her. “ _What?_ But you’re the one teaching me about Muggle things! At least tell me enough so I can look it up in the library!”

“No, I think it’s time for some independent studying.”

“Going to the library _is_ independent studying!”

“Why don’t you ask someone else?” Violet proposed.

“Who else am I supposed to ask?” insisted Draco.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’ll force you to make new friends!”

Draco glared at her and Violet tossed her thick hair back with a laugh.

“I’ll just ask your professor,” he said, haughtily. “Professor Inglehart, isn’t it? The blonde one?”

“Oh no, you don’t,” backtracked Violet quickly. “I’m going to tell her not to tell you.”

Draco’s eyes widened. He was constantly taken aback at how he had never noticed Violet until this year, she was possibly the most Slytherin of them all.

“ _Why?_ ” he complained. “Don’t you want me to know?”

“Yes,” replied Violet, calmly, closing her book— _Muggle Magic—_ and putting it back into her book bag. “But I’m the only person you talk to about Muggles and I’m not even from a Muggle family. If you’re genuinely interested, and I think you are, it’d be good for you to talk to people who actually grew up around Muggles.”

“You mean Muggle-borns,” said Draco, listlessly.

“Or half-bloods,” shrugged Violet.

“Well, that’d be all fine and well,” Draco sighed, “if only they didn’t all hate me.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

Draco raised his eyebrows at her.

“Finnigan barely restrains himself from hexing me on sight, Thomas is a little better but that’s not saying much, Finch-Fletchely nearly pisses himself any time I’m in the _room_ —”

“I get it, Draco,” Violet shoots him a glare. “I was actually thinking about Hermione Granger.”

Draco doesn’t even try to keep his jaw from falling open.

“Close your mouth, Draco, it’s unattractive,” Violet says, without looking at him, already opening her Defence textbook.

“Are you _mad?_ ” he said in a hushed voice.

“Daphne asks me that about twice a day,” responded Violet, calmly.

“You _are_ aware that Granger was tortured _in my home_ , aren’t you?”

Violet sighed and looked up from her book, giving Draco one of her _looks_ , where her hazel eyes seemed to see right through him.

“Draco, are you aware of the concept of _mending fences?_ ”

Draco just stared at her.

“She’s in my History of Magic class and she’s never anything but nice to me. She’s one of the only Gryffindors who constantly stands up for us Slytherins, you know?” Violet carried on, casually.

“She hates me,” Draco mumbled.

“She hates the Draco Malfoy who called her a Mudblood and made her and her friends’ lives miserable,” Violet retorts, effectively shutting Draco up. “But the Draco Malfoy desperate to know how Muggles walked on the moon?”

Draco’s head snapped up. “Wait, they _walked_ on it? _How?_ I—Violet!”

Suddenly Violet was laughing, warmly and heartily, and Draco felt one of those new, strange rushes of affection for his friend.

“Does that mean you’re going to ask her?” she asked, grinning widely.

“I suppose,” Draco grumbled, and allowed her to drape an arm around his shoulders and pull him into a one-armed hug.

* * *

 

On a daily basis, there were several moments that very obviously reminded Draco of how wildly different his life had suddenly become this year.

Every time he spoke to Violet—especially regarding her Muggle Studies classes—was one of these moments, but as he sat, cross-legged, on the dirty ground of the Forbidden Forest, with an adolescent Thestral’s head in his lap, stroking its silky mane and listening as Luna Lovegood dreamily recounted what she had learned about modern magical art, he briefly wondered if he had been transported to some parallel world.

Throughout the war, but especially during his sixth year, he often felt as if it wasn’t even him in his own body, as if he was watching himself from afar as he cursed the necklace or poisoned the mead or worked on the Vanishing Cabinet.

It was easier that way—to separate himself from the things he was doing, because he knew there was no other way he’d be able to accomplish them.

This year felt like the opposite. He was acutely aware of every muscle in his body, every breath he was taking, the soft grass he sat on and the hard soil right beneath it, the smooth yet thick texture of the young Thestral’s mane as he stroked it with his fingers, the gentle, melodic sound of Luna’s voice, and the cool winter air that kept his cheeks pink.

He was surprised at how much he liked it. He had always been afraid of feeling too much, of being even a little bit less than entirely in control of his emotional state, but there was something so simultaneously grounding and freeing about this—about the relaxed awareness of his body.

He was still trying to sort out his mind, and this year had given him a lot of new information to analyse and sort out, but for the first time since Voldemort had returned over three and a half years ago, he felt somewhat comfortable inside his own skin.

Well, most of his skin, that is.

“Luna?” he asked, quietly, after a moment of silence had fallen between the two of them. She turned her head and fixed her wide eyes at him.

“Would you still be willing to…to cover up my Dark Mark?” he found his voice almost turned into a whisper at the end and he was glad Luna didn’t ask for him to repeat himself.

She blinked at him.

“Is that what you want?”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t,” Draco murmured.

“Can I see it?” she asked, her tone of voice not at all revealing how serious of a question she was asking. Draco felt an unpleasant chill pool in his stomach, the way it always did when he thought about his Mark.

No one had seen it in a long time. In fact, the only one who had seen it after Draco had taken a knife to his arm had been Polkey, who then immediately tried to punish herself with the very same knife. Draco had managed to convince her not to tell his mother, however Narcissa had inevitably seen the Mark later. She had looked at him with sad eyes and excused herself from the room, and even though he couldn't hear her, Draco knew she had wept.

His Mark looked the same, still dark and black, but now littered with small scars even whiter than Draco’s skin. He had done his best to avoid looking at it since then, but it was hard to avoid your own body, your own skin.

A familiar numbness started to fill Draco and he knew what was coming. He was going to lose this warm feeling of consciousness and drift back into that disconnected state that kept all difficult emotions bottled up somewhere far away.

He was surprised to find that he didn’t want that anymore.

He tried to focus, on Luna’s kind face, on the cool air, on the warm breaths of the Thestral sleeping in his lap. He stopped his stroking of the Thestral’s mane to tug the left sleeve of his robes up and then reached his arm out towards Luna, displaying the Mark at full view.

He felt like he was being pushed underwater, his throat constricting and his breath speeding up. His stomach was churning and he almost started to regret this decision.

But then Luna reached out a hand and traced his forearm with a fingertip. Draco felt a chill run up his arm and down his spine, but her touch was gentle.

Luna said nothing about the scars, but he could feel when her finger went past the lines of the Mark and onto one of the scars that had sliced into it.

“You want me to cover it?” she asked. He wondered how she did that, how her voice remained soft and dreamy and never wavered.

“Yes,” Draco replied, his own voice not going over a hoarse whisper.

Luna continued to trace over his forearm with her finger.

“Magical tattoos are particular,” she began, her eyes looking up from his arm to his face once again. “Especially when imbued with Dark Magic.”

Draco remained silent, waiting with baited breath.

“Magical tattoos in general don’t much like being tampered with,” Luna continued, and Draco braced himself, ready for Luna to tell him it wasn’t possible, that he was stuck with the Dark Mark for the rest of his life.

“What did you want to cover it with?” she asked instead, looking at him with her head slightly tilted, her dirty blonde hair almost reaching the ground.

“I don’t know,” Draco responded, honestly. What did it matter? More than anything, he wanted it _gone,_ but he knew that wasn’t possible. He had tried.

Luna looked at him for a long moment, and Draco resisted the urge to pull back his arm and let his sleeve fall over it again.

“Do you like flowers, Draco?” Luna asked, her eyes far away again, gazing into the Forest.

“What?” he asked, at a loss.

“Flowers,” Luna repeated, a smile forming on her face as she withdrew her finger from his skin at last. “You seem like someone who appreciates flowers.”

Draco relaxed his arm but didn’t pull it towards himself yet.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I do.”

Luna looked towards him with a smile on her face.

“What’s your favourite?”

* * *

 

Draco was always careful walking around hallways; he had to be. There was often a Stinging Hex or Trip Jinx waiting for him around the corner. It hadn’t been unexpected even when he first arrived.

He had been a Death Eater, of course there would be people wanting to seek their revenge on him. He knew Daphne and Theo had also encountered a few hexes here and there, from people who mistakenly thought their families had been Death Eater sympathizers, but nowhere near as much as Draco.

He walked around Hogwarts with his hand clenched around his wand in his robe pocket. His new wand had him feeling far more confident too, since with this one, he could cast a decent Shield Charm.

That’s all he ever cast. He never retaliated, never shot a curse back, which was yet another thing that was drastically different about him this year. He was on probation, which meant he had to keep himself squeaky clean, without even so much as a detention on his record. Even if he cast in self-defence, he had no guarantee that his story would be believed.

After all, who would believe a former Death Eater over a grieving student?

He turned the corner with his hand firmly wrapped around his wand, hearing the vague sound of conversation, but he was glad to see a silver and green scarf on one of the figures.

As he got closer, he realized that the figure was actually Daphne, her blonde hair tied up in a low ponytail and her Slytherin scarf draped around her neck loosely. She was leaning over someone, and speaking in a low and soothing tone.

Draco approached them, quietly at first but then clearing his throat to make his presence known. He had a habit of sneaking up on people, not necessarily on purpose. He had always had a quiet way about him, something his mother had described as his ‘inner peace’. The thought was almost funny now.

At Draco’s little cough, Daphne’s head shot up and the girl beside her flinched noticeably. That was when he realized who the other girl was—Ella Wilkins, the small-statured seventh year girl from his Potions class.

She had a gash on her face, a long cut down her right cheek. Daphne had clearly cast a healing spell on it, as it wasn’t bleeding, but it was still fresh, red and swollen. Ella’s eyes were similar, the puffiness of her eyelids implying she had just been crying.

“It’s okay, Ella,” Daphne said, comfortingly. “He’s my friend.”

“What happened?” Draco asked, looking from Ella’s wound to Daphne’s worried face.

“What do you think?” she snapped at him, in a much less patient tone. “She was hexed.”

“What? Why?” he demanded. He was looking at Daphne, but it was Ella who answered him.

“It’s been happening all year,” she said, in a small voice. If she wasn’t in an N.E.W.T class with him, there was no way Draco would have believed she was a seventh year. She barely looked fifteen.

“Why? Who’s doing this?” Draco continued.

Daphne shot him a dangerous look.

“Don’t _interrogate_ her, Draco!” she scolded.

“It’s okay, Daphne,” Ella said, in her quiet voice. “It’s a couple of guys from my year. And some from sixth year, I think.”

“Why?” Draco repeated the one question that wasn’t being answered.

Ella simply shrugged.

“Because I’m a Slytherin. They’re angry about the war.” She said this in a monotone, as if reading from a book, and it was this tone, more than anything else, that lit the fire in Draco’s belly.

He ground his teeth.

“Ella, is it?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet for fear of losing control of it.

She nodded.

“May I see your left arm?” he asked.

She stared up at him, eyes wide at the implication, but she obediently held out her arm and pulled up the sleeve of her robes to reveal smooth, sienna skin. Un-Marked. Untainted. Undamaged.

Draco held out his own arm, and ignored Daphne’s sharp intake of breath and Ella’s full-on gasp as he yanked his sleeve up.

“You see this?” he said, as Ella and Daphne stared at the scarred Dark Mark. “I am the only Marked person in this castle. I am responsible, not you nor any other Slytherin. Next time, you tell them that if they’re angry about the war, they can take it up with me.”

He let his robes fall back down as he lowered his arm.

He turned to Daphne, who had composed herself and schooled her facial expression into one of neutrality.

“I presume you haven’t reported this to McGonagall,” he said.

She shook her head. “Ella didn’t want to give me the names.”

“It’ll just make it worse,” Ella provided, in a tiny squeak, clearly not able to get over Draco’s show as quickly as Daphne.

“They’ve sliced your face,” he said, bluntly. “How much worse can it get?”

Neither of the girls had an answer.

* * *

 

Potter was already there when Draco arrived at 7 p.m. sharp.

“Am I late?” He asked, coolly, knowing he wasn’t.

“No, no, I just came early. Just in case I needed to set up.” Potter replied, pushing his glasses up further onto his nose.

Draco looked around. He’d never been in this particular part of the castle, but it didn’t look particularly different.

A closed off corridor, large enough for duelling practice. Draco noticed a few dummies and a closed chest in the corner.

“And did you?” he asked, elaborating when Potter looked confused. “Need to set up?”

Potter looked towards the dummies in the corner and shook his head.

“No, Ashworth had already put those in by the time I got here.”

“Ah.” Draco nodded, remaining standing with his hands in his pockets. Potter fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting balance from one foot to another.

Draco simply watched him. He had been the one to ask Draco to do this, to come here and play like his student, so there was no way Draco was going to be the one to make it easy for him.

A lot of things may have changed this year, but by no means were Draco and Potter going to become best friends.

“Sorry,” Potter sighed, surprising Draco. “I know this is awkward.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, Potter,” Draco replied in a lofty tone.

“Come off it, Malfoy,” scoffed Potter. “It’s not like we’re friends, you and I. But we’ve been working well together in Potions this year.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to scoff.

“Working together? Is that what you call it, Potter?”

Potter scowled at him.

“You know what I mean,” he said, shortly. “We don’t have to be friends to be able to work together.”

“Very well, Potter. I agree to be civil, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Draco provided, which he found to be rather generous.

Potter just snorted.

“Alright, that’s more than I was expecting, if I’m being honest. I figured we’d start off with healing spells, if you’re amenable.”

“Ooh, big word, Potter,” said Draco. He couldn’t help himself. Potter just brought out this part of him. He expected Potter to retort, but—to Draco’s surprise—he just laughed.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Potter said. “Come on then, tell me what healing spells you’re familiar with.”

Draco eyed him suspiciously, but Potter merely looked back, his bright, green eyes expectant and his face open and patient. It was almost disarming, in a way. He had never seen that expression aimed at him before.

“Well,” he began, slowly. “I know quite a few.”


	24. Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a long stretch of silence, before Malfoy spoke.
> 
> “What made you decide you wanted to do this?” He asked. “Teaching, I mean?”
> 
> Harry looked at him, curiously. This was their fourth session, and Harry was simply glad that there hadn’t been any arguments between them, or insults thrown. Malfoy had gotten impatient last session when he couldn’t master a spell quite as quickly as he wanted, and he had said that maybe Harry would have made a better Auror after all, but that was incredibly tame for him, and Harry had just laughed.
> 
> But they also hadn’t talked about anything other than the spellwork, and Harry wasn’t sure if doing so was the best idea. After all, it wasn’t like they had ever held a civil conversation before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ! ! ! things are h A p P e n N i N G ! !

It was Saturday afternoon and Harry was sat at the edge of the field, watching the Gryffindor team practice. Ron had been with him, loudly yelling advice until the team captain—Demelza—finally marched over and told him to stop or she’d kick him out, but he had to leave for his apprenticeship meeting.

Harry had stayed, and now he watched Ginny fly, deftly weaving through other players with the Quaffle tucked under her arm.

It was odd how little he’s thought about Quidditch this year. He thought he’d miss it much more, but McGonagall had been right at the start of year feast when she’d said their N.E.W.T work and apprenticeships would keep them very busy.

Still, watching Ginny soar through the air as if she were made for it had him feeling wistful. It was an odd feeling, nostalgia, especially since this was his first year at Hogwarts where he was actually, truly safe from Voldemort. That was a strange feeling by itself, and Harry often found himself feeling antsy, as if he were waiting for some kind of attack. He’d mentioned it to Hermione once, and she’d given him a very concerned look before mentioning something called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in a soft voice.

He tried to focus on the players, flapping robes of scarlet bright against the pale blue sky. It was calming, and effectively distracted him from the two feet of parchment he was meant to be writing for Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Unfortunately, a whistle went off as Demelza called her players in for a team huddle, which meant their practice was coming to an end. Harry watched them until Demelza dismissed them and they all headed for the locker rooms and then slowly rose to his feet, dusting off his jeans of any grass that may have stuck onto him. He didn’t really want to leave; it was a surprisingly warm day in January and he liked the comforting familiarity of the Quidditch pitch, even if he wasn’t actually flying.

He slowly made his way up towards the path to the castle, but he stopped suddenly, surprised to see a group of unfamiliar people huddled a few feet away from the locker rooms. It took a few moments before he realized that they must be the recruiters Ginny was talking about. He felt a surge of nervous excitement for her. She’d flown well in practice—she always did—but he knew she was stressing herself out about the recruiters. He knew her top choice was the Holyhead Harpies, but it all depended on who showed an interest in her.

“Mr Potter?”

Oh, bollocks. He looked up to see the gaggle of recruiters all looking up at him with wide eyes. He tucked his hands in his pockets and ambled over to them. He supposed they wanted to ask about Ginny. The news of their breakup had gone past simple school gossip and had managed to make the front page of the Daily Prophet’s Christmas issue.

“Hi,” he said, sheepishly.

“Delmont Bradshaw,” the man who had called his name, a tall, somewhat gangly-looking fellow who looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, thrust his hand forward to shake Harry’s eagerly. “Recruiter for the Appleby Arrows. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter.”

“Er, Harry’s fine, thanks,” Harry said, awkwardly. A woman, standing a foot or two behind Bradshaw and short enough to be partially hidden by his towering figure, with raven-coloured pin-straight hair and hooded eyes, snorted.

“Don’t freak him out, Del,” she said, elbowing her colleague teasingly, before looking up at Harry, who was quite a bit taller than her. The first thing he noticed was the striking colour of her eyes—an extremely pale blue that shone in the gentle sunlight.

She reached out a hand and he shook it, trying not to wince at how fierce her grip was. For a woman so petite, she was clearly very strong.

“Tabitha Hawk,” she introduced herself. “I represent the Falmouth Falcons.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said.

He was then introduced to the other three recruiters of the group—Chester Vogel, a slightly overweight man with thick black eyebrows and a matching moustache who worked for the Montrose Magpies; Ruth Merriweather, a relatively young woman with long auburn hair falling down to her hips who was here for the Holyhead Harpies; and Keegan Hitchens, a fair-skinned man with broad shoulders and a friendly-looking face, who represented the Kenmare Kestrels.

“Were you watching the practice?” the eager Delmont Bradshaw asked. “We heard your year wasn’t allowed to join the teams this year, is that correct?”

Harry nodded.

“But the Gryffindor team looks great this year,” he was quick to add. “They’ve got some really talented players.”

It was true, Demelza had chosen her players well. Ritchie Coote and Jimmy Peakes had stayed on as Beaters and Demelza and Ginny were joined as Chasers by a new find by the name of Natalie McDonald, a fifth year who flew with her small body pressed down against her broom to advance her speed. She was flying on what looked like a Comet 360, but her speed rivalled that of the Firebolt due to her little technique.

“Were you here to watch Miss Weasley?” asked the Kestrels recruiter, Keegan Hitchens. Ah, there it was.

“I came to support my House team,” Harry said with a smile, keeping it neutral, but adding: “Ginny’s a fantastic player, one of the best I’ve seen.”

Hitchens nodded, seeming impressed, and Harry hoped that his endorsement might help Ginny land an offer.

“Oh? Who else have you had your eye on?” asked Chester Vogel, with a grin on his face.

Harry hesitated. He wanted to answer honestly, about the new Gryffindor Keeper—Simone Wexler, a girl in the same year as Ginny and a formidable force—but he feared his answer would be misconstrued and the next article in the Daily Prophet would be about Harry dating his way through the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, amiably. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

Vogel and Bradshaw chuckled, graciously.

“What about yourself?” asked the dark-haired Tabitha Hawk, watching him with her light eyes.

Harry looked at her in surprise.

“Me?”

“Yes. Your Quidditch talent is no secret. The whole Wizarding World saw the way you flew in the Triwizard Tournament. Rumour has it you impressed Viktor Krum. You were Captain of the Gryffindor team two years back as well, weren’t you?”

“Er, I mean, yes, I was, but—” Harry stumbled over his words and Hawk cut in.

“Do you have an interest in pursuing Quidditch professionally?” she asked, getting right to the point. “The Falcons would love to have you try out.”

“Oh, er, thank you,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s for me.”

“Of course,” Hawk said, in an understanding tone. “If you change your mind, however, don’t hesitate to send an owl.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” he said, and she nodded shortly. Just then, the Gryffindor team began to spill out of the locker rooms, and the recruiters all bid a quick goodbye to Harry before rushing towards them. Harry made eye contact with Ginny, who widened her eyes as she realized what was happening. He grinned at her and waved, before turning back to the path up to Hogwarts.

He really did have to start on that Defence essay.

* * *

 

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked as he sat down in a grey armchair beside Hermione. Recently he’d noticed that a lot of the time it was just him and Hermione. Sometimes it was because Ron had long apprenticeship meetings, but it had become increasingly frequent for him to be absent. He hadn’t asked about it, assuming that maybe he still wasn’t comfortable being around Hermione or something, but it had been long enough since they’d broken up and they seemed to be back to normal around each other.

“He went to Hogsmeade with Sophie for a drink,” Hermione supplied.

He looked at her in confusion.

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

Hermione looked up from whatever schoolwork she was focusing on to raise her eyebrows at him.

“They’re on a _date,_ Harry,” she said, like she was speaking to a child.

“They’re what?” Harry exclaimed. “Since when has that been going on?”

Hermione shrugged. “Just since we got back, I think. But they’ve clearly liked each other for a while now.”

It had certainly not been clear to Harry, but he didn’t say that to Hermione because he knew she would just give him another one of her _looks._

“Oh,” he said instead. “Are you alright with that?”

She gave him a kind smile.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Harry,” she said. “I actually think Sophie and Ron are a good match. They’re very similar, you know.”

He supposed he could see that. Sophie did have a similar sense of humour as Ron; they were always laughing at each other’s jokes. She was also similar to Hermione though, in that she was studious and dedicated to her classes.

“It isn’t weird for you?” he asked.

“Would it be weird for you if Ginny started dating someone new?” she asked.

Harry considered this, thinking of Ginny flying around the pitch like a bird, of her expression as she saw the recruiters ambushed the team outside of the locker rooms.

He shook his head.

“No, I guess it wouldn’t be.”

“Well, there you go,” Hermione said.

“You hated when he was dating Lavender, though,” Harry said it without thinking, and what followed was a long moment of silence between them.

“That was different,” said Hermione in a quiet voice. “Those feelings between Ron and I don’t exist anymore.”

“Okay,” Harry said, not wanting to push her any further. He still wasn’t sure he understood the complex relationship between his two best friends, but he supposed he never really would—it was their thing. And if Hermione was fine with Ron dating Sophie, then so was Harry.

“As long as you’re alright,” he said and Hermione gave him a gentle smile and reached over to squeeze his hand warmly.

* * *

Harry’s eyes were slowly drifting closed in his armchair when the familiar sounds of bricks clattering jolted him awake. He blinked repeatedly, trying to fully wake up and looking at who was walking into the common room.

“Hey, Neville,” he said, yawning widely. Neville looked up at him in surprise and then smiled.

“Hullo, Harry,” he said, warmly. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Lost track of time,” he said, shrugging. “What about you?”

“Had to check on my Starthistle plants,” Neville said with a wide grin. “They’re almost at full bloom.”

“Congrats,” Harry said, though he had never heard of Starthistle plants.

“Thanks!” Neville answered, brightly. “Edgar Caverly actually gave me the seeds, his family owns a farm where they grow all sorts of magical plants.”

“Cool,” Harry grinned as Neville sat beside him on the armchair vacated by Hermione several hours earlier. “Who’s Edgar Caverly?”

“Oh, he’s a seventh year in my Herbology class. He’s really interested in underwater Herbology, and he knows a lot about it because the Slytherin common room is right under the lake.”

“He’s a Slytherin?” Harry asked in surprise.

Neville gave him an odd look.

“Yeah,” he said, easily.

“And you’re…friends?” Harry asked, slowly.

“Yeah,” Neville continued talking in that easy tone. “He’s a bit weird, but he’s a good guy. He’s great at Herbology, too.”

Harry pondered this. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Slytherin House this year. They had always seemed…unpleasant to him. Ever since his first conversation with Hagrid, all those years ago, where he’d first learned about Voldemort and what had happened to his parents.

_There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin._

Harry thought about that. He had never really questioned it, since Voldemort and most of his followers had been in Slytherin. Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov…all Slytherins.

But then he thought of Peter Pettigrew.

Pettigrew, the man who had gotten his parents killed, beloved best friend of his dad and Sirius and Remus who had betrayed them, had been a Gryffindor.

It was all very confusing.

But it wasn’t just him. Gryffindor and Slytherin students famously didn’t get along, as he and Waya had discussed. It just wasn’t common to see Gryffindor and Slytherin students as friends. The Slytherins had never given Harry any reason to trust them, and that hadn’t changed this year, despite all he’d been hearing about them needing a second chance.

“What’s it like?” he asked. “Being friends with a Slytherin?”

He flushed, feeling like he could’ve phrased that question much better. Thankfully, Neville didn’t point that out.

“It’s nice, actually,” Neville said, smiling. “He used to get made fun of by the other seventh-year boys, but only him and one other guy came back this year. I never thought I would have anything in common with a Slytherin, you know. Always thought they were evil and all that. But he’s just a regular bloke, with a couple odd hobbies. He was so surprised when I was nice to him in class. He said no one even spoke to him now, just because he was a Slytherin. His parents weren’t Death Eaters or pureblood fanatics or anything; his mother’s actually a half-blood. It just made me think, how dumb is it that we hate each other because of traits detected in us when we were eleven, you know?”

Harry considered this, and thought of Malfoy. He had always been, to Harry at least, the _worst_ Slytherin, and they were managing to somewhat get along these days.

“That makes sense,” he said, truthfully. “I guess it’s just weird for me to think about the Slytherins as…people. I know that sounds awful.”

“It doesn’t sound awful,” Neville said. “The Gryffindors and Slytherins have always been terrible to each other, it’s practically a Hogwarts tradition. But it’s different this year. There aren’t as many Slytherins as usual, and everyone’s really angry at them. I get it, people lost a lot in the war. But that wasn’t the fault of any of the Slytherins that came back, you know? None of the Death Eaters’ kids came back this year. Well, except for—”

“Malfoy,” Harry filled in and Neville nodded.

“But it’s like no one cares about that. Everyone’s just going after all the Slytherins now, as if they were all Death Eaters or something. It’s not right,” he frowned, and Harry was suddenly thrown by how grown up he looked. He was nothing like the shy, chubby-faced boy he once was.

“You’re right,” Harry found himself agreeing.

* * *

 

“Okay, let’s take a break,” Harry said, as Malfoy’s carefully placed hair started to fall into his face due to his sweating forehead. He expected Malfoy to argue, to insist he was fine to go on, but instead he just nodded, falling against a chair. Harry went over to the trunk in the corner, which had a Cooling Charm on it, and pulled out two glass jars of water. He handed one to Malfoy, who took it with a nod, and then sat in the chair beside his.

There was a long stretch of silence, before Malfoy spoke.

“What made you decide you wanted to do this?” He asked. “Teaching, I mean?”

Harry looked at him, curiously. This was their fourth session, and Harry was simply glad that there hadn’t been any arguments between them, or insults thrown. Malfoy had gotten impatient last session when he couldn’t master a spell quite as quickly as he wanted, and he had said that maybe Harry would have made a better Auror after all, but that was incredibly tame for him, and Harry had just laughed.

But they also hadn’t talked about anything other than the spellwork, and Harry wasn’t sure if doing so was the best idea. After all, it wasn’t like they had ever held a civil conversation before.

“I don’t know, honestly. Ashworth suggested it, and it just sort of…made sense,” Harry said, truthfully.

“I thought you wanted to be an Auror,” Malfoy said.

“I thought I did, too,” said Harry, quietly. He didn’t want to elaborate, didn’t want the conversation to lead to the war, as it inevitably would.

Thankfully, Malfoy didn’t pursue the subject.

Instead he said, “Though I also thought you might become a Quidditch player.”

Harry looked at him in disbelief.

“Really?”

Malfoy snorted, derisively, taking a swig out of his jar.

“Don’t sound so surprised. You were the youngest Seeker in a century,” he said.

Harry thought about the Quidditch recruiters from yesterday, and couldn’t help smiling.

“I actually got an offer to play Quidditch for the Falcons yesterday,” he said, conversationally. It was just a thing to say, but Malfoy turned and stared at him, his mouth actually falling open slightly.

“No, you didn’t,” he said.

Harry looked at him in confusion. “Yeah, I did?”

“And you turned it down?”

“Yeah?” he phrased it like a question, unsure where this was going.

Malfoy rolled his eyes so hard there was a split-second where only the whites of his eyes were visible.

“Of course it’s no big deal to you, oh, Saviour of the Wizarding World,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“I didn’t say it was no big deal!” Harry said, defensively. “I just don’t want to play Quidditch professionally. I feel like it wouldn’t be fun if I had to do it for work.”

“Oh, alright, alright. Still, the _Falmouth Falcons._ They’re my favourite team,” Malfoy sighed, almost wistfully, and Harry found himself interested. He didn’t know much about Malfoy, not in this sense.

“I don’t really have a favourite,” he found himself saying.

Malfoy snorted. “Always thought you’d be a Puddlemere fan.”

“They’re alright,” Harry shrugged.

“They’re boring,” Malfoy countered.

“They haven’t sent a recruiter out yet,” said Harry. “Not that I’ve heard anyway.”

“They usually don’t like picking right out of Hogwarts. They wait until other teams have picked them and then trade players once they see where the real talent lies.”

“Oh,” Harry said, wondering how Malfoy knew all of this. “That’s smart, I guess.”

“Harder to get their players to earn team loyalty that way,” Malfoy argued. “The Falcons have never had a player leave their team for another and the only player they ever pinched off another team was Tabitha Hawk, who played for the Wimbourne Wasps for a year before the Falcons got her.”

“Tabitha Hawk? She was the recruiter there!”

Malfoy once again shot him a wide-eyed look.

“What? _Tabitha Hawk_ was here? At Hogwarts?” he demanded.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t know she used to play for the team, I thought she was just a recruiter.”

Malfoy shook his head, incredulously.

“Tabitha Hawk was the best Keeper the Falcons ever had. She played for seven years and never once let the Quaffle into the hoops. Not _once._ ”

“Woah, that’s impressive.”

Malfoy threw him an ugly look, but it lacked any real malice.

“I can’t believe _Tabitha Hawk_ wanted to recruit you and you said no. Fucking Potter.”

Harry, who had never heard Malfoy swear, let out a surprised laugh, and he could swear he saw Malfoy’s mouth twitch.


	25. Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco suppressed a snort. He supposed he should have expected that; it must have been quite hard to believe that Draco Malfoy was suddenly all chummy with Muggles and Muggle-supporters. Sometimes he didn’t even realize how much he’d changed until he was confronted with moments like these.
> 
> “Yeah,” he said, shrugging as if it were nothing. “She’s been teaching me about them.”
> 
> Potter looked as if Draco had just announced he was marrying a house elf.
> 
> “She’s teaching you about Muggles?” he said it with such disbelief that Draco was unsure whether to be offended or not. Then he remembered the countless times he had called Granger a ‘Mudblood’ and decided he didn’t have the right.
> 
> So he simply nodded.
> 
> “Apparently, my education in all things Muggle was severely lacking,” he said. He was looking all around the room, trying to find something to fix his gaze on, uncomfortably aware that Potter’s eyes never once left his face.
> 
> There was yet another long moment of silence and then Potter broke it with a sudden and random subject change.
> 
> “Have you been going to the Quidditch games?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when writer's block hits you so hard you disappear into nothingness for a month <<<

“Absolutely not, she’s with Potter and Weasley,” Draco said, stubbornly. Violet and Daphne shared exasperated looks that Draco chose to ignore.

“She’s _always_ with Potter and Weasley,” said Daphne, impatiently. “Honestly, Violet, how do you put up with him every day?”

“I have the patience of a saint,” Violet said, looking completely serious.

Draco turned to scowl at her and she responded with an angelic smile.

“You know what? Fine. Fine, I’ll ask her,” Draco stood up and, with a significant look at the two of them, began to stride over to where the famous trio sat in the grey armchairs.

Once he reached his destination, he immediately began to regret his decision.

He and Potter were managing to be relatively civil to each other, but _Weasley_ was there and that brought back all his old instincts. It was like it was a natural reaction, he felt his palms sweating with the mere effort of biting back a rude remark.

The three of them had been engaging in a quick-paced, hushed conversation, but as soon as Draco had approached, they had gone silent, instead looking up and staring at him.

“Whad’you want, Malfoy?” Weasley said, aggressively. Draco clenched his teeth.

“Granger,” he said, as politely as he could. “Could I have a word with you?”

Granger looked so surprised her bushy eyebrows disappeared into her equally bushy hair.

“What for?” Weasley demanded and this time, Draco didn’t stop himself from scowling at him.

“It’s Granger I’d like to speak to, not you, Weasley,” he snapped. All things considered, he could’ve said a lot worse. He turned back to Granger. “In private, please.”

“Anything you want to say to Hermione, you can say in front of us.” Weasley puffed out his chest and crossed his arms.

“Oh, _honestly,_ Ron,” Granger rolled her eyes at him, but she didn’t make any moves to indicate she was going to vacate her chair. She turned back to him. “What is it, Malfoy?”

He sighed and cast a desperate look over to where Daphne and Violet were sitting by the window. They weren’t looking at him, but rather were laughing together over something Violet was pointing out in one of her books.

He couldn’t believe he had to do this in front of Potter and Weasley.

“How did the Americans walk on the moon?” He let it all out in one quick breath, trying to get it over with as soon as possible.

Granger blinked at him and for a moment, Draco thought Violet had been messing with him this whole time.

He was just thinking how best to hex her when Granger asked, “You mean the Muggles?”

“Yes.”

All three of them were staring at him and Draco felt incredibly uncomfortable. He almost walked away, but he really was curious and he had gotten this far already.

Suddenly—out of nowhere—Granger offered him a smile.

“Have a seat, Malfoy,” she said, gesturing to an unoccupied armchair.

“What? But—I—you— _Hermione!_ ” Weasley sputtered, as Draco obediently sat himself down in the armchair Granger indicated.

“Be quiet, Ronald,” Granger said, swiftly, and Draco was rather amazed when Weasley shut his trap instantly. She turned to Draco. “How’d you find out about that anyway?”

“I—is it supposed to be a secret?” Draco asked, confused. At this, Potter chuckled and Draco felt himself bristling. He was just about to snap at him when Granger cut in.

“No, no, of course not, I was just wondering.”

“Violet told me,” Draco supplied.

“Violet?” Potter asked, his eyebrows scrunching.

“Yes, Violet,” Draco sighed. “Violet Foxblade, she’s sitting on the windowseat with Daphne.”

Potter looked over to the window, to where Violet and Daphne were still engaged in conversation.

“I recognize her,” Potter said, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Potter, you’ve been in school with her for eight years now.” He neglected to mention that even he hadn’t known Violet well before this year.

“No, I mean…from something else, I think.” Potter looked quite puzzled.

“She’s in our Defence class. She had a terrible boggart at the beginning of the year. And…she fought in the Battle of Hogwarts,” Draco offered, numbly. Might as well get this conversation over with. “On your side.”

Potter stared at him, his eyes wide, but it was Weasley who answered.

“But…she’s a Slytherin.” There was something of a question in his voice. Draco regarded him with a cold glare.

“Well-spotted, Weasley.”

“Shove off, Malf—”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Granger interrupted loudly, shooting Weasley a sharp look and then turning back to Draco. “The moon landing, what do you want to know?”

Relieved that he didn’t have to talk anymore about the battle, Draco nodded.

“Everything. I don’t understand. How did they do it?”

To his surprise, Granger smiled again.

“Well, Muggles have these machines that can fly,” she started.

“Yes, yes, aeroplanes, I know,” Draco said, not wanting to seem completely unknowledgeable. Granger looked quite pleasantly surprised.

“Yes, but aeroplanes can only fly on Earth. They also have machines that can fly into space. I don’t know _exactly_ how they work, to be honest, but I know there are several types. Muggles use them to explore space and observe the Earth from space.”

She was saying all this in a remarkably nonchalant tone of voice and Draco was astounded. Lots of the things Violet had told him about Muggles had shocked and impressed him, but this had to be the most unbelievable. Muggles were really just flying around _space?_

“The spacecraft that went to the moon was called Apollo 11,” Granger went on.

“Like the Greek god?” Draco asked, earning himself another smile.

“Yes, exactly. It was part of a longer program of space exploration the Americans were doing. Apollo 11 is the one that accomplished the mission. Three astronauts—that’s the name for the people who go to space in those machines—were in the crew. So the machine was launched into space by a rocket—which is this other machine that sort of deploys it and projects it forward. I think it took them about three or four days until they landed on the moon. And then the astronaut Neil Armstrong was the first to set foot on the moon.”

Draco was doing his very best to keep his facial expression blank and emotionless, but inside he was bursting with questions.

“But how?” he allowed himself to ask. “Wouldn’t he, you know, explode?”

“Oh! I can’t believe I forgot to say this, astronauts wear these special space suits. They protect them from the extremes of space and have a system that make it easier to move around. They also have an oxygen supply, of course.”

“And…and they made all this—the suits and the rockets and the space…spacecraft—without magic?”

Granger had a smile on her face again, a big, wide one, showing off her white teeth. For a moment, Draco was distracted. He vaguely remembered Granger having sort of bucked teeth when she was younger. Perhaps she had grown into them.

“Yeah, it’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah,” Draco murmured, without even realizing what he was saying. “Yeah, it is.”

When he looked up, he found Granger, Weasley, and Potter all staring at him. Granger was still smiling slightly, but Weasley looked like someone had clubbed him in the head. Potter had an infuriatingly unreadable expression on his face, his bright green eyes boring into Draco.

“Well,” Draco said, standing up suddenly and straightening his robes. “Thank you, Granger, I appreciate the information.”

With as much dignity as he could muster, he stalked off, heading back to where Violet and Daphne sat by the window.

As he left, he could’ve sworn he heard Weasley ask, “Was all that _true,_ ‘Mione?!” 

* * *

The Hufflepuffs were planning a party.

Or so claimed Daphne, at least.

“It’s for Valentine’s Day, apparently,” she said, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder dramatically. Violet looked up at her from whatever book she had been focusing on.

“Where’d you hear that?” she asked.

“I overheard Turpin and Patil whispering about it last night,” Daphne explained, referring to her and Violet’s Ravenclaw roommates. “It looks like everyone knows about it except for us.”

“Let me guess,” said Violet, slamming her book shut. “The Slytherins are not invited.”

Daphne nodded her head in confirmation. “I heard Patil saying the plan was to wait until we were all asleep and then go down to the common room and cast Silencing Charms so we won’t wake up.”

Draco could see the fire light behind Violet’s eyes.

“That’s _terrible,_ ” she exclaimed. “They’re going to all that effort just to exclude us?”

Draco just snorted. “It’s actually rather impressive, considering they’re Hufflepuffs.”

Daphne and Violet didn’t seem to find this funny.

“Oh, come off it,” Draco said. “Don’t tell me you honestly wish to go to a Valentine’s party thrown by the _Hufflepuffs?_ It’s not as if they know how to even organise such an event.”

“That’s not the point,” Violet argued. “It’s cruel.”

Draco shrugged. “They probably just don’t want to be reminded of their families dying while they're trying to enjoy themselves.”

Violet went quiet, her eyes softening.

Daphne, however, retorted haughtily, “I haven’t killed anyone’s family. And I will remind you, Draco, that neither have you. Just because your parents and Nott’s second cousin or whoever were Death Eaters doesn’t mean we should all be punished for their sins.”

“It was his uncle,” Draco muttered, knowing it didn’t matter. Theo and his father had distanced themselves from Cantankerus Nott, but that hasn’t stopped his actions from staining the family name and causing everyone to assume Theo and his father were also Death Eaters.

“New plan,” Daphne said, ignoring Draco’s comment and turning back to Violet. “We are crashing that party.”

Violet gave her an apprehensive look. “I don’t know how much better liked we’ll be if we crash their party.”

“Please,” Daphne flipped her hair once again. “It’s just like Draco said, the poor Hufflepuffs will have no idea what they’re doing. I am enlisting the help of one Blaise Zabini and we are going to show up with Firewhisky and Daisywine and his wizard radio and they will have no choice but to welcome us in with open arms.”

Violet now had a smile growing on her face.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” she said, thoughtfully.

“Violet, darling, when is the last time you’ve known me to have a bad idea?” Daphne said, fixing her fluttering eyes on Violet and causing the other girl’s cheeks to flush red.

“Oh, keep it in your trousers,” said Draco, surprising even himself. Daphne fixed him with a hard glare and Violet went even redder and Draco couldn’t help but laugh. 

* * *

After Draco thanked Ollivander profusely for his new wand, the elder wandmaker got straight back to work.

They hadn’t been able to resume their sessions right after the holidays, as Ollivander had had business abroad, as he had detailed in an apologetic letter he’d sent to Draco.

So now, in early February, Ollivander said they had much to catch up on.

“I’m certain you had no issues determining the wood and core?” Ollivander said, expectantly.

Draco, who had been relatively certain in his previous analysis of his wand, suddenly felt nervous under the silver-eyed gaze of his mentor.

“It looks to me to be larch and unicorn hair,” Draco said, trying to sound confident. To his relief, Ollivander’s face lit up in a smile.

“Excellent, my boy, excellent. What can you tell me about larch wood?”

“Notably hard to please,” Draco said at once. Once he had figured out that his new wand was larch, that had worried him; he hadn’t been sure if it would work well for him. “It’s constantly in demand because of its strength and reputation. It can be tricky to handle, but when bonded to a well-deserving master, it can have a lot of hidden abilities and effects.”

While the wand had been working favourably for Draco so far—especially in comparison to his previous one—he wasn’t entirely convinced that larch was the perfect match for him. It seemed to ask a lot of him, for a wand.

“Yes, yes, very good,” Ollivander nodded, approvingly. “And how’s it been working for you? Any problems?”

“None at all, sir,” Draco said, and he couldn’t keep the hint of pride out of his voice.

Ollivander awarded him with a warm smile.

“That’s lovely to hear. I knew that larch would be the right choice for you. It will help you pick up your confidence as well,” at this, he gave Draco a wink. “And yes, unicorn hair, like your first wand, correct? I remember it well—hawthorn and unicorn hair, ten inches, springy.”

Draco nodded, and oddly, he suddenly missed his old wand. It had been a good one.

“That wand went on to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Ollivander continued, a somber look crossing his face. Draco felt his stomach drop.

The conversation had arrived, as many did these days, at the war.

“I think that had more to do with the wizard than the wand he was using,” he mumbled. He didn’t often find himself complimenting Potter, but at this point, it would simply be ignorant to deny that he was an unbelievably powerful wizard.

“Now, now,” Ollivander said, a small smile creeping back onto his face. “Don’t forget what I am teaching you here. The topic of wand ownership is a tricky one, and it’s one we will examine further. It was a complex exchanging of hands that allowed for young Mr Potter to achieve his victory. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was in possession of the Elder Wand, and had he acquired proper ownership of it, we would be living in a much different world right now.”

Draco felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn’t want to think about that. He already spent far too many nights having horrible dreams about it, about what would’ve happened if Voldemort had won. Sometimes he didn’t think he would have lived. Even if Voldemort hadn’t disposed of him, he wasn’t sure how high his will to live would have remained.

“I do wonder,” Ollivander said, his voice suddenly changing to sound curious, “what the current status of ownership of the hawthorn wand might be.”

Draco blinked at him.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Potter won it off of me. It’s his now.”

He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Yes, one would think so,” Ollivander’s pale, silvery eyes were looking somewhere faraway. “But when he won that wand from you, he also gained ownership of the Elder Wand, which had previously held allegiance to you, though you were, of course, unaware of the fact. However, Mr Potter chose to put the Elder Wand in hiding, using it to repair his old wand instead. That would lead us to believe that Mr Potter holds the allegiances of three wands—his own, the Elder Wand, and the hawthorn wand.”

As complicated as it sounded, it all made sense to Draco. What he didn’t understand then was why Ollivander was now doubting Potter’s ownership of the hawthorn wand.

He said as much, asking, “So the hawthorn wand _isn't_ Potter’s now then?”

Ollivander refocused his eyes on Draco, still smiling slightly.

“Think about it, my boy,” he said. “Remember what I told you on the very first day. _The wand chooses the wizard._ Most wand woods are not fickle, and hawthorn most definitely not. When Mr Potter handed me the wand to examine, I concluded that he had won it from you and become its owner. However, after the Battle of Hogwarts, Mr Potter chose to repair his old wand rather than continue to use the hawthorn wand. At the time, I believed this was because of Mr Potter’s fondness for his first wand, one of the first items that connected him to the magical world. Now, however, I wonder if it may partially have been because the hawthorn wand had not fully yielded its allegiance to him.”

Draco felt his heart rate quicken.

“Do you mean that…that it could still belong to me?”

“An excellent question,” Ollivander nodded. “I would have to examine it to be sure. You see, wizards can use one another’s wands, however they will never respond as well as they do to their rightful owner. I would have to know how the hawthorn wand responds to both you and Mr Potter.”

Just like that, Draco’s heart fell again. That was never going to happen. Even if Potter agreed to let him have his wand back, he wouldn’t agree to experiment with it without a proper reason, and Draco couldn’t tell him the truth about his apprenticeship. Well, at least he didn’t have to deal with the infernal fake-redwood wand anymore. 

* * *

Draco was growing sick and tired of healing spells.

“Potter, this is the fifth session we’re spending on this,” he finally exclaimed, after a full twenty minutes of practicing. “I think I’ve got it.”

Potter looked at him with an insufferable smirk on his face.

“You’ve got it now, sure. But it’s different when you really need to use it. You’re under a lot more pressure.”

“Yes, Potter, I’m well aware that I won’t be using healing charms on a dummy in an empty corridor.”

Potter raised his eyebrows at him.

“Alright, then. Let me test you. Best spell for a broken finger?”

“ _Emantur ligna,_ ” Draco crossed his arms. “Make it a challenge at least.”

Potter’s smirk simply grew wider.

“Dislocated wrist?”

“ _Episkey._ ”

“Spell to clean a dirty wound?”

“ _Redige vulnere.”_

“Stop a wound from bleeding?”

“ _Prohibe sanguinem,”_

Potter narrowed his eyes at him, and Draco felt a rush of satisfaction at coming out on top—for _once_. But just as he was about to crow in victory, Potter pulled out his wand and in a swift movement, pulled up his left sleeve, pointed his wand at his own forearm, and cast, _“Diffindo,”_

It all happened very fast. One second, Potter was looking at Draco with a set expression, the next there were long slashes down his arm, blood flowing like a river, and Potter’s legs began to shake.

Draco let out an involuntary yell and automatically rushed towards Potter to grab him as he began to fall.

“Are you _mad_?” he cried, grabbing at Potter’s arm and pointing his wand at it. “ _Vulnera sanentur._ ”

A spark of yellow shot from Draco’s wand, and Potter’s blood began to run in the other direction, returning into Potter’s arm before the gashes closed up neatly, leaving no evidence of any wound. Potter’s long white scar, the same size as Draco’s Dark Mark, remained.

Draco leaned back with a sigh, allowing his speeding heart to slow down and catching his breath. The whole encounter couldn’t have taken more than a minute, and yet Draco felt as if he’d run a mile.

Potter was quickly regaining colour in his face and as soon as he sat up, Draco fixed him with a glare.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, Potter?” he said, darkly.

Potter just looked at him, green eyes bright and wide.

“You need to be able to know how to use them in a practical setting,” he said, as if it were the simplest answer in the world.

“And what exactly would you do if I _wasn’t_ able?” Draco demanded.

Potter shrugged, which only made Draco angrier.

“Does it matter? You did it.”

Draco scrambled to his feet.

“Does it matter? Does it _matter?_ Paint me the scene, would you, Potter? Let’s say I didn’t remember the spell, or couldn’t cast it. Then what?” He didn’t give Potter a chance to answer. He was furious. “I go get help, I suppose, and what? Tell them that Harry Potter cursed _himself_ in front of me in an empty corridor? You think they’d fucking _believe_ me? They would laugh me all the way to Azkaban, you utter _imbecile_!”

Potter was staring at him, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. Draco let out a heavy breath; he was practically shaking with how angry he was.

Potter slowly got to his feet, letting his sleeve fall down over his arm and his scar.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t think.”

“Of course not,” Draco spat. “You never think, do you? You just act, you reckless Gryffindor, even if it’s something immensely irresponsible and _harmful._ Why do you insist on risking your life? Are you trying to prove a point?”

He had to stop. He had to leave now or he was going to end up saying something he couldn’t take back. The times when he could spit unforgivable insults at Potter without worrying of the repercussions were long behind him and he needed to get control of himself _now._

Potter’s shoulders sagged.

“I don’t know,” he said, and he sounded so low, so _defeated;_ it threw Draco off so much that for a moment he almost forgot how angry he was. “I keep feeling like I’m waiting for a fight and I can’t stand it, I just…I just need the fight to come and be done with.”

Draco stared at him, unable to make sense of the boy in front of him. Potter was the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding World, he had saved _everyone._ Even the remaining few Death Eaters were no danger to him, as they were all in hiding and being hunted down by the Aurors. He had fought an entire war and gone head to head with the most powerful Dark wizard of all time and he had _beaten_ him. What more of a fight could he possibly want?

“The fight already came, Potter,” he said, shortly. “You won.”

Potter sighed, falling into a chair. Draco pulled another around and sat as well.

“I know,” said Potter. “I guess I just don’t feel like the war is over yet. I don’t know if I ever will.”

Draco pondered this. It was a stark difference to how Draco himself felt, as he was constantly reminded of the war being over, what with how he and his fellow Slytherins were being treated, but also with how he himself had changed, spending time with people like Luna Lovegood and Violet, and actually enjoying himself in their company.

But the feeling of fear that he associated with the war hadn’t left him. He still woke up in cold sweats from nightmares featuring snakelike eyes and green light. He kept expecting to wake up and find himself in the Manor under Voldemort’s control, as if this unusual post-war world had all been a strange dream.

“I understand,” he said, cautiously, unsure if he actually did. His fear hadn’t left him, but Potter couldn’t really be _afraid_ , could he? What did he have to be afraid of?

Potter looked at him, surprise in his eyes.

“You do?” he asked, sounding oddly hopeful.

“Well,” Draco paused, wondering for a moment how he ended up in this kind of conversation with Harry Potter of all people. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s really gone for good this time. Sometimes I expect him to just show up out of nowhere. Sometimes it’s impossible to fall asleep at night because I see him every time I close my eyes.”

He closed his mouth suddenly, realizing how much he was letting spill out. He felt as if he’d lost his mind. What was he doing, exposing all these weaknesses to Potter? Talking about his feelings? Who was he becoming?

Potter was staring at him as if he’d grown another head, a mixture of shock and amazement in his face.

“Exactly,” he murmured. “Do you ever just hold onto your wand in your robes as if you’re about to be attacked?”

“Well, yes, but that’s more to do with the Stinging Hexes than anything else,” Draco replied, without thinking.

“The what?” Potter asked.

“Nothing,” Draco tried to cover up, but Potter narrowed his eyes dangerously. “Oh, don’t be an idiot, Potter. Of course people are angry at me, what did you expect?”

He waited for Potter to respond, but he just sat there, looking thoughtful.

“I talk too much now,” Draco grumbled, more to himself than to Potter. “This is all Violet’s fault.”

That caught Potter’s attention as well.

“Who is she anyway?” he asked. “Violet Fox…whatever it is?”

“Foxblade,” Draco answered, before pausing. “What do you mean? She’s my friend.”

“Since when? I’ve never seen you with her before this year.”

“Since this year,” Draco said. “There are only a few of us Slytherins left, you know.”

Potter went quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “I remember her boggart. It was a girl bleeding. A girl who looked like her. Did someone in her family die?”

“That’s her business, Potter,” said Draco, narrowing his eyes at Potter. He didn’t know why he was asking all these questions about Violet, but he was feeling a sense of protectiveness over his friend rise up in him.

“Sorry,” Potter said, somewhat sheepishly. “I was just curious. I didn't know that any Slytherins fought on our side, to be honest."

Draco considered snapping back that of course Potter wouldn't, as he believed all Slytherins to be evil, but it would be somewhat hypocritical of him - a former Death Eater - to try and make such a righteous argument.

"I didn't either," he said instead. "McGonagall sent all the Slytherins off. But some of them stayed behind. Like Violet. And Tracey Davis. They hid with the Ravenclaws and fought on your side. Davis died. Violet survived."

There was a long moment of silence as Draco stared at his hands, folded in his lap, feeling Potter's gaze on him.

"You said she told you about the moon landing, right?” Potter then asked.

Draco felt a flush rise up in his neck, remembering the embarrassing experience of having to ask Granger about it in front of both Potter and Weasley.

“Yes,” he said, purposefully not elaborating at all.

Unfortunately, Potter was not the type to take a hint.

“How did she know about that?” he asked. “Isn’t she a pureblood?”

“She takes Muggle Studies,” Draco said, avoiding the topic of Violet’s sister. While Violet didn’t keep her apprenticeship and passion for Wizard-Muggle relations a secret, he didn’t know how many people knew about Laurel. “She wants to work with Squibs and Muggles.”

Potter was staring at him with wide eyes once again.

“And you’re…okay with that?” he said, slowly.

Draco suppressed a snort. He supposed he should have expected that; it must have been quite hard to believe that Draco Malfoy was suddenly all chummy with Muggles and Muggle-supporters. Sometimes he didn’t even realize how much he’d changed until he was confronted with moments like these.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging as if it were nothing. “She’s been teaching me about them.”

Potter looked as if Draco had just announced he was marrying a house elf.

“She’s teaching _you_ about Muggles?” he said it with such disbelief that Draco was unsure whether to be offended or not. Then he remembered the countless times he had called Granger a ‘Mudblood’ and decided he didn’t have the right.

So he simply nodded.

“Apparently, my education in all things Muggle was severely lacking,” he said. He was looking all around the room, trying to find something to fix his gaze on, uncomfortably aware that Potter’s eyes never once left his face.

There was yet another long moment of silence and then Potter broke it with a sudden and random subject change.

“Have you been going to the Quidditch games?”

Draco furrowed his eyebrows at him, confused at where the conversation was going. But then, maybe this was just how conversations with Potter were. He didn’t have much experience in the matter, unless you counted insults and thrown hexes as conversation.

“Not really,” he said. “Theo goes to all of them, but I haven’t really wanted to. Not as much fun when you’re not playing, is it?”

“Yeah, that’s how I’ve been about it, too,” Potter said, casually, and Draco was struck once again by one of those abrupt realizations of how bizarre everything now was. Here he was, sitting with Potter, having a perfectly calm conversation about Quidditch. What had the world come to?

“There’s a match tomorrow,” continued Potter. “Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw, so no real investment from either of us.”

Draco wondered why Potter was telling him this.

“Do you want to go?”

Draco looked at Potter, who was watching him, expectantly.

“What, with you?” he asked.

Potter shrugged. “Yeah. We can stand five feet apart and glare at each other occasionally if it makes you feel better.”

Draco fought the urge to smile.

“Fine,” he said. “But you’re still a prat. This doesn’t mean we’re mates now, Potter.”

Potter’s face broke into a crooked grin.

“Heaven forbid.”

Draco decided the events of the past half hour definitely had to be analysed further and possibly discussed with Violet, but for now, his composure remained cool.

“Very well. Now teach me something new, I’ve clearly mastered healing spells.”


	26. Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re Death Eaters,” said a Ravenclaw girl, coldly, which stopped all murmurings immediately and wiped the smile off of Greengrass’ face.
> 
> “Slytherin does not mean Death Eater, Lisa,” Hermione said, turning towards the girl. “They’re not.”
> 
> “Malfoy is,” Ernie argued.
> 
> Harry looked at Malfoy again, who was still looking down at the ground, but whose jaw was clenched so tightly that Harry could see the bone sticking out of his pointy face.
> 
> “Malfoy was judged by the Wizengamot and given the appropriate sentence,” Harry said, finally standing up from his chair. “Unless you think your opinion matters more than the Wizengamot’s?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the lateness, life got in the way and for some reason I find Harry's chapters harder to write than Draco's. a bit odd but oh well. hope you enjoy.

“Hermione?” Harry asked tentatively, approaching his friend at one of the desks in their common room. “Can I talk to you a moment?”

Hermione’s bushy hair sprang back as she snapped her head up. She regarded Harry with furrowed eyebrows and a concerned expression.

“Of course. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Harry confirmed, taking the seat across from her. “I just…”

He paused, unsure how to properly articulate what he wanted to talk to her about.

“I went to a Quidditch match with Malfoy yesterday,” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. Saying it out loud really made him realize how utterly surreal it was.

Hermione seemed to think so too.

“You did what?” she asked, perhaps thinking she had misheard him.

“We went to see the Quidditch match,” he repeated. “With Malfoy.”

Hermione blinked at him, slowly.

“Why?” she asked, which was precisely the question Harry didn’t have an answer to. So instead, he decided to tell her about their last session, about what had happened after he had stupidly slashed open his own arm and Malfoy had healed it and yelled at him, and about the strange conversation they had had afterwards.

Hermione listened calmly and nodded, except for at the part where Harry said he had cast a _Diffindo_ on himself, where she gasped.

Once he had finished, she had a soft look on her face.

“Harry, are you asking me if it’s okay to be friends with Malfoy?” she asked. Harry stared at her. That wasn’t at all what he was thinking.

“No,” he said. “I’m just…confused.”

“About what?”

“About what I’m supposed to feel!” he exclaimed, frustrated.

“Why do you think you’re supposed to feel one way or another?” she asked.

“Because Malfoy’s a Death Eater,” he said, much more firmly than he really meant.

“You spoke at his trial, Harry,” she continued in that gentle tone.

“He didn’t deserve to go to _Azkaban_ ,” Harry said, stubbornly. “That doesn’t mean that what he did was right.”

Hermione went somewhat quiet.

“I don’t think anyone thinks what he did was right, Harry. I don’t even think he does anymore.”

And, well, yes, that did seem to be true, if Harry was to believe what Malfoy had told him about learning about Muggles from his new friend.

“But…he still did them,” Harry couldn’t help but think of Dumbledore.

Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment before replying.

“I wish it were easier, Harry,” she said, actually placing her quill down and crossing her fingers together. “Malfoy was always so easy to hate, especially for you, because you were always fighting with each other, but I suppose it’s different now, because he seems to be becoming a different person.”

“But you can’t just become a different person,” Harry argued.

“Of course you can. You don’t think you’ve changed at all after everything that’s happened? People grow, Harry, and we change, and some of those changes can be overwhelming.”

Perhaps absent-mindedly, Hermione touched the scar that Bellatrix had left on her throat.

“Aren’t you…you know…angry?” he said.

Hermione’s eyes flashed back to him in an instant.

“Of course I am,” she replied, almost indignantly. “But we have to be careful about where we aim that anger. Was Malfoy an awful prat who hated Muggleborns? Yes. Is he still? Honestly, I’m not sure. But I don’t want to waste any of my energy hating him anymore. It’s exhausting and unproductive and even when I feel that anger inside of me, it’s not towards Malfoy. At the end of the day, he was just a kid, and while he was a terrible bully, I don’t think that equates to being a war criminal.”

Harry took a moment to digest this.

He let out a sigh.

“Everything’s different now,” he said. “Is it wrong that maybe I hoped Malfoy would still be a horrible git just so something would remain the same?”

Hermione gave him a little smile.

“He’s still no prince, you know,” she said, with a joking tone in her voice.

“I know,” said Harry. “Can you believe he’s learning about Muggles from his friend, that Fox girl?”

“Foxblade?” Hermione asked. “She’s in my History of Magic class.”

“Malfoy seems really close to her,” Harry commented.

Hermione gave him an odd look.

“I suppose. She’s quite interesting, you know. She fought back against the Carrows last year, even though she wasn’t invited to be in the DA.”

Even though the DA was headed by Neville last year, Harry still felt a surge of guilt.

“I thought the Slytherins were all helping the Carrows. Torturing first years and everything.”

Hermione’s expression darkened at Harry’s words.

“Some of them were. Crabbe and Goyle especially, just following along, since Malfoy was gone. But definitely not all of them. The Slytherins were always an unpleasant lot, but that doesn’t mean they were all aspiring Death Eaters.”

Harry sat in silence, considering this. He thought about what the Sorting Hat had told him in his first year, that he would do well in Slytherin. He couldn’t help but wonder how different his life would be if he had been sorted there instead of Gryffindor. He very much doubted it would have changed his feelings towards Voldemort.

“So,” Hermione said, a small smile back on her face. “How was the Quidditch match?”

Harry blinked at her.

“What?”

“The Quidditch match. With Malfoy. How did it go?”

“Oh,” he said, remembering the day before. “It was…weirdly normal. We mainly just watched the game. It was odd though, rooting for the same team as Malfoy.”

“Who were you rooting for?” she asked, which was unlike Hermione, who normally couldn’t care less about Quidditch.

“Ravenclaw,” Harry supplied. “Mostly because Zacharias Smith is the Hufflepuff Seeker and he’s a tosser. He did terribly too, the Snitch was right in front of him at least three times and he still didn’t catch it.”

Hermione smiled at this.

“It sounds like you had fun,” she said.

And well. Yes, he supposed he had. With Malfoy.

It would take some getting used to that.

 

 

“Tell me if I am mistaken, but from what I heard, you are one of the few students at Hogwarts capable of non-verbal, wandless magic.”

Harry could feel the excitement bubbling up inside of him.

“We learned some non-verbal spells in sixth year,” he affirmed. “And I can do a few wandless spells, but I can’t do both non-verbal and wandless at the same time.”

Waya nodded, thoughtfully. “Wandless magic is far more difficult than non-verbal, which is why it isn’t typically taught here at Hogwarts.”

Not wanting to interrupt, but also bursting with curiosity, Harry asked, “Did you learn it at Ilvermorny?”

Waya regarded him with his dark eyes, before slowly beginning to speak.

“The history of magic is very different in North America. My people practiced magic openly for many years, occasionally using staffs as vessels for our magic, but for the most part it was wandless. It was when the colonists arrived that we had to learn how to cast non-verbally. Wizards and witches were hunted in those days, among the Puritans themselves as well as among us. Many of them believed it was our people that were spreading magic amongst their own and we were heavily persecuted for it. It became vital for our people to know how to cast without leaving any evidence of magic, and so non-verbal and wandless magic became ingrained in our culture. When Ilvermorny was founded, members of our tribe—among others—offered to teach non-verbal and wandless magic in exchange for instruction at the school. It was a skill born of necessity, to escape persecution, however Ilvermorny is now famous for teaching it to their students.”

Harry listened raptly. He had never found History of Magic interesting in the slightest in his past six years at Hogwarts, however much of that had to do with the person—or ghost, rather—who was teaching it. Having never heard anything about magic in the Americas, Harry found himself quite curious.

“It is a valuable skill to learn, and while I usually recommend it is taught to children from a young age so they have longer to become accustomed to it, I am aware that you are a highly unusual wizard. I have hoped for many years that Hogwarts would begin teaching more wandless magic, and I think you would be the perfect choice to introduce it.”

While he normally hated being complimented, Harry felt himself swell with pride. This was something he would love to get _very_ good at. There were so many benefits to wandless and non-verbal magic, he wondered why it hadn’t been introduced at Hogwarts earlier.

“If you don’t mind putting your wand away for a moment, could you demonstrate the wandless spells you are able to perform?”

Harry obediently placed his wand on Ashworth’s desk and then concentrated on summoning his magic into his hand.

“ _Lumos,_ ” he cast, and a ball of bright, bluish-white light burst from his palm.

“Excellent,” Waya nodded, approvingly. “What else?”

“Erm,” Harry looked around the room, trying to find something to summon. Deciding on the Gryffindor flag hanging by Ashworth’s bookshelf, he cast, “ _Accio_ flag.”

The small scarlet flag came zooming towards him. Waya nodded once again.

“Charms are a wonderful place to start. Are you able to do any defensive or offensive spells wandlessly?”

“Only _Expelliarmus,_ ” Harry said, “And it’s really only sometimes.”  
“Sometimes? Say more.”

Harry wrung his hands, trying to think of how to explain it.

“I’ve only been able to do it, well, in battle,” he said. “Out of desperation, I suppose.”

Waya’s expression was very serious.

“Does this manifest in other ways?” he asked.

“Er…what do you mean?”

“Do you often lose control of your magic? Does it operate by itself when you become emotional or find yourself in dangerous situations? Similarly to when you were a child, perhaps?”

Harry thought about this.

“Sometimes,” he nodded. “Not often, I don’t think. I mean, when I was thirteen, I accidentally blew up my aunt. And last year, sometimes my magic would just come out without me casting a spell.”

Waya still wore that stern expression, his dark skin betraying the lines around his mouth as he frowned slightly.

“Fascinating,” he said, quietly, before looking at Harry. “As I’m sure you’ve heard many times now, you are a very powerful wizard. However, we do have to make sure you have a firmer control over your magic. As an instructor, you certainly do not want your magic acting out in the classroom, and I guarantee that emotions will get high at times. I also think, though, that there is more you are capable of with such strong magic. If you’re able to fully control your magic, I think there is a potential for exploring some Ancient Magic, if you have an interest, of course.”

Harry found that he very much did.

 

 

Harry went to the next Quidditch match with Ron. It was Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, and Ron’s face had completely lit up when Harry had suggested they go together at breakfast.

He was rather glad with his decision, too. While he dearly missed playing Quidditch, the new Seeker—a fourth year boy named Euan Abercrombie—flew rather well. He was small and quick, the exact right build for a Seeker, and Harry was strongly reminded of his own first time playing Quidditch.

Ron was yelling loudly throughout most of the game, especially when a Hufflepuff Beater pelted a Bludger at Ginny and hit her right in the ribs, causing her to double over on her broom.

“Foul!” Ron bellowed, almost louder than the commentary, which was being done by Dennis Creevey. He motioned to Madam Hooch, who didn’t do anything, because it hadn’t really been a foul, and Harry just grinned at his friend.

He only stopped when Ginny shouted, from the air, “That was a clean hit, Ron! Shut up!”

Ron scowled, and Hooch blew her whistle and the game carried on.

_“Weasley tells her brother off and Hufflepuff Beater Heidi Winchester laughs and…winks at her? Aaand Gryffindor in possession of the Quaffle, Robins passes to McDonald, McDonald to Weasley, Weasley back to McDonald, and—oh!—Carpenter intercepts! And now it’s Hufflepuff with the Quaffle.”_

It was a rather intense game, as the Hufflepuff Chasers were formidable, but the new Gryffindor Keeper was very quick.

“Glad she wasn’t trying out when I was,” Ron said, when she made an extraordinary block by hanging upside down on her broom and kicking the Quaffle away with the tip of her foot.

Harry grinned, deciding it was better not to agree aloud.

He was glad to have this time with Ron, this moment of normalcy in what was one of his most unusual years at Hogwarts—which was saying a lot.

He had been thinking a lot about his conversation with Hermione, about spending energy hating Malfoy. He still felt so tired all the time, and he was still constantly thinking about the war, about all the lives they had lost. Everyone seemed to expect him to move on, to suddenly be alright just because they had won.

And yes, alright, they had won. But at what cost? Was it really winning if they had lost so many people, so many lives? Harry still thought about them all, about Remus and Tonks, about Fred, Mad-Eye, Dumbledore, even Snape. And Sirius. Always Sirius. He thought after three years maybe the pain would start to subside, but it still came at him in harsh reminders, like a quick stab to the chest every time.

Hermione said that talking about it would help, that he needed to get some of the pressure of his chest. But he felt like talking about it just made things worse, just made the pain more present, more focused. And talking always seemed to worry his friends, something that he didn’t feel he had any business doing anymore.

 

It was Valentine’s Day and apparently the Hufflepuffs were throwing a party in the common room at midnight. Harry’s immediate thought was that he would much rather go to bed and get some sleep, but Hermione, Ron, and Sophie all seemed to be looking forward to it, and when Hermione looked at him with a smile and bright eyes and asked, “You’re coming too, right, Harry?” he knew he couldn’t just say no. What kind of a friend would he be if he left her to be a third-wheel with Ron and Sophie?

So that’s why he was here now, holding a goblet of pumpkin juice and sitting on one of the armchairs, watching his classmates chatting and laughing amongst each other. He felt a bit stupid, and briefly considered if Ron and Hermione would notice if he slipped away to his dormitory.

Ron was sitting on the carpet, leaning against an armchair occupied by Sophie, who was mindlessly running her left hand through his hair. Around them sat Seamus, Dean, Justin Finch-Fletchely, and Terry Boot, and they all seemed to be having a serious debate about something.  Hermione was chatting animatedly with a dark-haired Ravenclaw who was nodding enthusiastically, both of them sitting on the window seats usually frequented by the Slytherins.

Speaking of the Slytherins, Harry didn’t see any of them around. He supposed that made sense, since there were far less of them this year. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to attend.

He himself didn’t really want to be attending.

He didn’t know why he wasn’t feeling up to it. He supposed he had never really liked parties, not that he had been to very many.

It wasn’t much of a party, to be honest. Not that Harry had known what to expect, but it was much like any other Saturday in the common room, with people relaxing and chatting amongst each other. He was just thinking that he would tell Hermione he was tired and head to bed when a loud noise interrupted his thoughts.

He looked up to search for the source of the sound and saw a group of people atop the staircase leading to the boys’ dormitories. Among them, a shock of pale blond hair. _Ah._ The Slytherins had arrived. The loud noise appeared to be coming from a wizard radio, which Greengrass, who was leading the group, was holding in her left hand. As they descended the stairs, Harry recognized it as a Weird Sisters song.

Everyone was watching them now, mostly silent, aside from a few girls sitting by one of the tables, who were whispering amongst themselves. Ernie Macmillan had sprung forward to meet them at the bottom of the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, in a haughty voice.

“We live here,” Greengrass replied, coolly. “This is our common room too.”

“Well, yes,” Ernie stumbled, slightly, but then recovered. “But we’re hosting something at the moment, so if you please—”

“Oh, you mean the party that you purposefully kept a secret from us so that we wouldn’t show up?” Greengrass said, making her voice louder so that everyone would hear.

Almost everyone began whispering at this, and Ernie’s face went rather pink.

“It’s bad manners to show up uninvited!” He protested, and at this, Hermione jumped in.

“Is she telling the truth, Ernie?” she demanded, standing up so fast that her hair seemed to bounce. “Did you selectively not invite the Slytherins?”

“Nobody wants them here!” Ernie exclaimed, losing all sense of his originally calm composure.

Harry couldn’t help but look at Malfoy, who was standing at the back of the group of Slytherins and staring determinedly at the ground, looking very much as though he’d like nothing more than to just disappear.

“I want them here,” Harry said, and everyone’s head whipped around to look at him. He didn’t know what made him say it. He supposed it was rather unfair, to invite everyone but the Slytherins, especially considering the fact that they were all sharing a common room together.

“Wha—What?” Ernie stuttered, seemingly blown away.

Harry shrugged. “We’re all just sitting here talking, why shouldn’t they be able to join in? They’ve brought a radio.”

Greengrass was beaming at this point and pushed Zabini, who looked rather apprehensive, forward.

“And Firewhisky!” she declared.

More murmurings commenced among the rest of the common room, most people suddenly looking much more welcoming.

“They’re Death Eaters,” said a Ravenclaw girl, coldly, which stopped all murmurings immediately and wiped the smile off of Greengrass’ face.

“Slytherin does not mean Death Eater, Lisa,” Hermione said, turning towards the girl. “They’re not.”

“Malfoy is,” Ernie argued.

Harry looked at Malfoy again, who was still looking down at the ground, but whose jaw was clenched so tightly that Harry could see the bone sticking out of his pointy face.

“Malfoy was judged by the Wizengamot and given the appropriate sentence,” Harry said, finally standing up from his chair. “Unless you think your opinion matters more than the Wizengamot’s?”

Looking rather intimidated, Ernie shook his head.

“Why don’t we bring it to a vote?” Hermione said, facing the rest of the common room. “All those who want the Slytherins to stay, raise a hand.”

Harry raised his hand in the air, and watched as more hands steadily began to rise. Only a few people kept their hands down—Ernie, the Ravenclaw girl Lisa, the Patil twins, a Hufflepuff girl, Seamus, and…Ron.

“That’s decided then,” Hermione said, in an official tone of voice. “The Slytherins stay.”

The Slytherins looked like they hadn’t expected this victory, given the surprised expressions they sported.

“Thank you, Granger,” Greengrass said, somewhat quietly, and Hermione gave her a smile, before returning to the window seat and the Ravenclaw boy. Greengrass pushed Zabini forward again, who revealed a rucksack he was carrying and began to pull bottles out of it. The room began to buzz again, with people leaning forward interestedly. Zabini placed all the bottles on a nearby table and Summoned several dozen goblets, which came zooming from the boys’ dormitory.

“Help yourselves,” Greengrass said, with a nervous-looking smile, setting the radio down on the same table.

People started to stand and walk over the table, some offering smiles and ‘thank you’s to Greengrass, who was looking more confident. Harry was still looking at Malfoy, who hadn’t moved from his position at the back, and hadn’t lifted his head. His friend, Foxblade, was standing next to him, holding his arm in what could either be a comforting gesture or to prevent him from sprinting back to the dormitories.

He seemed to realize someone was looking at him, because he finally looked up and met Harry’s gaze, pulling his face into a frown as he did so. Tugging free of Foxblade’s grip, he walked over to where Harry was standing by his just-vacated armchair.

“You didn’t have to do that, Potter,” he said, shortly.

“Do what?”

Malfoy scowled at him.

“You know exactly what.”

Malfoy often didn’t make any sense to Harry. Not that he had been expecting him to be grateful or anything, but no matter how much progress they seemed to make, it appeared as though there was always going to be this underlying animosity between them.

Harry realized he was tired of it. Hermione had been right, he just didn’t have the energy in him to hate Malfoy anymore. Moreover, he didn’t have the _desire_ to hate him anymore.

“I know I didn’t have to,” he said, calmly. “I wanted to. It was the truth. It was the right thing to do.”

Malfoy just stared at him blankly, until Harry nodded towards the table.

“I’m going to get some Firewhisky. Do you want some?”


	27. Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excellent work, as always,” Slughorn said, approvingly as he passed by their table. “And you used a gold cauldron! Ah, Harry, my boy, you remind me of your mother. Take ten points for Gryffindor.”
> 
> Potter make his usual uncomfortable-looking face, glancing from Draco to Slughorn, but surprised Draco when he spoke up.
> 
> “Well, sir, Malfoy actually said we should use the gold cauldron. He knew a lot more about Amortentia than I did,” he said.
> 
> Draco, to his own horror, felt himself flush as Slughorn’s eyes fell on him.
> 
> “Is that right?” he asked, and Draco forced himself to meet his head of House’s eyes.
> 
> “Yes, sir,” he said, in his most polite tone of voice. Slughorn looked at the potion once again, from which steam was rising in perfect, characteristic spirals, and then back to Draco.
> 
> “Very well done,” he said, after a beat. “Twenty points to Slytherin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was SO fun to write !! and its looooong too so I hope you guys enjoy it!! let me know what you think <3

Draco had begun insisting that Potter at least pay attention to what he was doing in their Potions classes. He had told Potter—and attempted to tell himself—that it was because he was tired of doing all the work while Potter sat around doing nothing and taking all the credit.

Truthfully, Draco didn’t really mind doing the work. He enjoyed brewing Potions. It just made sense. It was precise, methodical work, and he liked how he had to focus his whole mind on it, leaving no room for other, unsavoury thoughts to creep in.

However, it was when Slughorn reminded them on which potions were likely to be on their N.E.W.T.s that Draco realized Potter had absolutely no idea how to make any of them. Initially, he thought, well, that’s Potter’s problem, isn’t it? But then he started feeling somewhat guilty. Slughorn favoured Potter, there was no question about it, but even the Saviour of the Wizarding World couldn’t get away with passing a Potions N.E.W.T. without knowing how to draft a simple Pepper-Up.

So, unfortunately, now Draco was actually attempting to teach Potter how to brew the potions they were assigned, which was proving rather difficult. Thankfully, they were no longer at each other’s throats quite as much, however Draco was still finding Potter’s ineptitude challenging his patience.

When Slughorn announced that today’s potion was Amortentia, Draco felt his heart sink slightly. Amortentia was an exceptionally difficult potion to brew, and talking Potter through it was not going to be easy.

Potter himself was looking somewhat nervous, however, which—for some reason—lifted Draco’s spirits slightly.

“Fetch the ingredients, would you, Potter?” Draco said, in a somewhat resigned voice. Whether this turned out to be an utter catastrophe, he supposed he would just have to wait and see. “And do not touch any of them with your bare hands.”

Potter mumbled something that sounding like, “I know, I know,” and ambled off to the ingredient storage. Meanwhile, Draco went to the back of the classroom to trade the pewter cauldron for one of solid gold.

When they both returned to the table, Potter gave him a funny look.

“Why do we have a gold cauldron? That wasn’t in the instructions, was it?”

Draco sat, looking over the ingredients dumped on the table by Potter to make sure they were all correct before answering.

“No, it wasn’t, however Amortentia brews much stronger in a gold cauldron. Sometimes, during the brewing process, when the Valerian root is added, the potion can reach extremely high temperatures, and some of the pewter from the cauldron can melt and mix into the potion, which dilutes it. However, gold has a much higher melting point, so there’s no risk there.”

To Draco’s surprise, Potter actually looked interested.

“How come Slughorn didn’t mention that?” he asked.

Draco shrugged. “Because you can still use a pewter cauldron without damaging the potion. But if you swap for the gold during your N.E.W.T., you’re bound to score a few extra points.”

Potter nodded, and Draco couldn’t help but feel his mood slightly brighten. There was something about holding Potter’s attention that was very powerful. Draco tried to tell himself it was because Potter was a dolt who couldn’t keep his focus on anything for more than a few seconds, but truthfully, he knew that wasn’t really it.

“I thought Amortentia took like a month to make,” he said.

Draco shook his head.

“No. The Ashwinder eggs need to steep in the rosewater for exactly thirty days, which is why the process usually takes that long, but Slughorn’s already done that for us.”

Potter nodded again, understanding, and Draco felt a bit better. Maybe this wouldn’t be as draining as he thought!

By the time class was nearly over, he felt very differently. He had tried to patiently walk Potter through the process of Amortentia, but Merlin, Potter was _slow_ , seeming to have a hard time when it called for doing two things as once, such as stirring while adding the Veela tears, or adjusting the heat after every drop of moondew was added.

Draco had tried not to snap at him, because he knew that would lead to an argument or at least some snarky exchanging of words, which they really couldn’t afford while working on a potion this complicated. He was rather proud of himself to have accomplished this feat, especially since Potter did _not_ make it easy.

“Excellent work, as always,” Slughorn said, approvingly as he passed by their table. “And you used a gold cauldron! Ah, Harry, my boy, you remind me of your mother. Take ten points for Gryffindor.”

Potter make his usual uncomfortable-looking face, glancing from Draco to Slughorn, but surprised Draco when he spoke up.

“Well, sir, Malfoy actually said we should use the gold cauldron. He knew a lot more about Amortentia than I did,” he said.

Draco, to his own horror, felt himself flush as Slughorn’s eyes fell on him.

“Is that right?” he asked, and Draco forced himself to meet his head of House’s eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he said, in his most polite tone of voice. Slughorn looked at the potion once again, from which steam was rising in perfect, characteristic spirals, and then back to Draco.

“Very well done,” he said, after a beat. “Twenty points to Slytherin.”

Draco’s eyes widened and when he caught Theo’s eyes across the room, Theo grinned at him. Draco felt himself go even pinker.

Once Slughorn was at the front of the room, he addressed the class.

“I have to say, I am very impressed with you all today!” He spoke with a broad grin on his face and his arms out as if he were inviting them all to embrace him. “You all brewed a highly advanced potion to a relative degree of success.”

Draco couldn’t help but wonder how relative the degree of Weasley and Finnigan’s success was. His eyes were just wandering over to look at Zacharias Smith and the other seventh-year Hufflepuff at the front of the class when he realized Slughorn was inviting them to name what they smelled from their potions.

He frowned. He didn’t find that entirely appropriate; after all, Amortentia was meant to smell of the things one found most attractive, something that Draco found to be…well, rather personal. He shifted in his seat slightly as the fumes of the potion wafted temptingly into his nose.

“…and peaches, and the leather of a Quaffle,” girl-Weasley was saying, leaning forward in her seat next to Luna, who said nothing but “It smells of friends and stars,” when it was her turn to speak.

He paid a bit more attention when it was Theo’s turn.

His feelings regarding Theo were rather confusing, and he had never really been the best at understanding his emotions even when they were simple. He knew he had had strong feelings towards Theo, whatever they might have been. He had hoped desperately for Theo’s survival and safety during the war, and he felt a funny sort of flutter in his stomach whenever Theo gave him that half-smile of his, but…but he didn’t think he wanted anything else.

After the disaster on Theo’s birthday, Draco had thought about it, had thought about what had motivated him to launch himself at Theo in that way. He thought about whether he was disappointed with Theo’s response, whether he wanted…well, whether he wanted to kiss Theo again. More. Regularly.

But he didn’t think he did. He liked being his friend. He liked that he could now talk about the true nature of his apprenticeship with him, that conversation rarely turned to the war, that Theo was smart and well-read and could easily keep up with Draco.

And, well, if Theo was rather good-looking as well, it wasn’t Draco’s fault he felt that little flutter. That flutter was a purely physical reaction that had nothing to do with Draco’s real thoughts or desires. Draco didn’t _really_ desire Theo, he just…admired him. Found him interesting. And attractive.

But maybe, just maybe, Draco would like it if _Theo_ desired  _him._ Perhaps it was a bit selfish, but was that so wrong? Was it so wrong to want to feel wanted by someone, especially when it was abundantly clear every day that his very presence and existence was so thoroughly _un_ wanted by everyone else around him?

Draco didn’t feel like he deserved much of anything anymore, but he did feel like he deserved the right to be a little bit selfish in that regard.

“I smell…cold mountain air and eucalyptus,” Theo was saying, his face one of concentration. “And…grapefruit, I think? It’s…it’s my mother’s perfume.”

His voice seemed to get small at the end, and Draco saw Blaise reach over and squeeze his arm comfortingly. Blaise then described scents of leather and pipe-smoke, and then it was only their table left.

He felt all eyes swivel to look at him and Potter at the back of the classroom, and immediately looked at Potter to avoid making eye contact with anyone else.

Potter was looking at their cauldron, with a strange expression on his face, as if he was reading a complex and difficult book and struggling to understand it.

“Harry?” Slughorn prompted, shaking Potter from his reverie.

“Right, er, yeah,” Potter said, characteristically eloquent. “I smell treacle tart, and broomstick polish, and Firewhisky. And…er….some sort of flower, I don’t know what kind.”

Draco suddenly felt a burning curiosity to identify the flower Potter was smelling. Where had he smelled it? What did it remind him of? What did it symbolize? Did it have a Muggle meaning as well? Did Potter know if it had a meaning? Probably not, since he couldn’t even name what flower it was.

“And you, Mr Malfoy?” Slughorn was saying, and Draco’s attention was brought back to the intoxicating steam rising from the pearlescent potion.

He still felt it was rather personal to talk about, and he spoke in a quiet voice, but he said it nonetheless.

“I smell freshly baked bread,” he said, softly. “And rain on the pavement and cashmere sweaters and—”

He stopped, not wanting to say anymore, but realized the whole class was waiting for him to finish.

“And fish and chips,” he mumbled, barely audibly, staring determinedly at his lap. When he finally looked up, the class was facing the front again, but Potter’s green eyes were fixed on him.

* * *

 Draco stared at the wand before him, hardly able to believe it.

“Outstanding job, my boy, simply outstanding,” Ollivander was saying, but Draco was far too distracted by the wand he held in his hands. It wasn’t a particularly handsome wand, but it was a _wand,_ and _he_ had made it.

“Go on then, try it out,” Ollivander urged and Draco gripped the handle of the wand a little tighter.

“ _Aguamenti,”_ he cast, and a jet of water shot out from the tip of the wand. Perhaps it was not as much as it should have been, but it didn’t matter, because _he_ had made this wand and it _worked._ More than that, his theory on wand cores had been right, and here was the proof—twelve inches of walnut and dragonfly wing.

“Excellent, excellent!” Ollivander said, clapping a wizened hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You are making tremendous strides, my boy. Your theory on the cores was _revolutionary_ , no such thing has been accomplished in wandlore yet, Draco. You should be very proud.”

Draco couldn’t help it—he was grinning. He felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards Minerva McGonagall, for having suggested he pursue wandlore, as he had never felt so fulfilled in his life.

“Come sit,” Ollivander said, and Draco obediently went to sit in the chair across from the old wandmaker, placing the wand—the wand _he had made—_ on the table beside them.

“How are you feeling?” Ollivander asked him, a small smile on his face.

Draco didn’t know how to properly describe what he was feeling. He didn’t know if he had the vocabulary, if he had a past feeling he could relate it to.

What came out of his mouth was, “Grateful,” and he found it was very true. Ollivander’s silvery eyes softened slightly.

“Do you still view yourself as unworthy of forgiveness?” he asked him, his voice much gentler.

Draco fidgeted slightly in his seat.

“Some things can’t be forgiven, sir,” he said, and he couldn’t help but think he sounded so very small.

“That may well be true,” Ollivander nodded slowly, “But other things can be, and it is important you know that I have forgiven you a long time ago. You have proven yourself to be a dedicated and hard-working student who understands the complexities and nuances of wandlore, and your ideas come from a place of curiosity and thirst for knowledge, and I believe that has pushed you to open your mind.”

Draco didn’t understand how he could feel like his heart was soaring and sinking at the same time. He wanted to interrupt, to argue, to shout that it didn’t matter how open his mind was becoming now, it wasn’t open when it mattered. He didn’t learn fast enough. But a part of him didn’t want Ollivander to stop talking, He wanted to hear this, wanted to think something positive about himself again finally, wanted _someone_ to think something good about him, to be proud of him.

“I want to talk more about wand allegiance,” Ollivander said, his tone becoming more serious. Draco immediately shoved down the emotions that were bubbling to the surface and focused his attention.

“It is a facet of wandlore that is particularly difficult to understand. Magic can be fickle at the best of times, and since wands are imbued with a special form of magic but are not sentient beings, what can cause a wand to bend it’s allegiance is not always constant. As you know, certain wand woods are more faithful than others, and generations of wandmakers have tried to understand why that is. When buying a new wand, it is just a matter of trial and error, testing wands until one chooses to give its allegiance. Where it gets tricky is when wands are won or inherited. Wands form strong bonds with their original owners and these bonds are not given up on easily. Even when wands are won, there is no guarantee that it has been completely mastered. Wands have different personalities and many have various conditions that must be fulfilled before their allegiance will switch over.”

He was repeating a lot of information they had covered previously, but it felt like he was building up to something, so Draco remained silent and listened. When Ollivander paused, and looked off to the distance, Draco realized he had been holding his breath.

“The Elder Wand is an interesting case to consider,” Ollivander said, quietly. “Not much is known about it, as it was a wand of legend. Prior to last year, I was not certain it truly existed. The allegiance of the Elder Wand is unsentimental and faithless. It is only loyal to strength, switching its allegiance entirely when won. That is not to say that it is easily won, as those in possession must be aware of the valuable nature of the wand they possess and go to extreme means to prevent others from obtaining it.”

There was another pause as Ollivander seemed lost in thought. Draco felt like his heart was beating somewhat faster. He didn’t know where Ollivander was going with this, but he was desperate to. He hadn’t really been able to follow Potter’s speech to the Dark Lord about the Elder Wand during the Battle, it wasn’t as if that was really where his attention was focused, but he wanted to understand, he wanted to know how it was possible that _he_ had, at some point, had ownership of the Elder Wand, when he had never even laid a hand on the blasted thing.

“It is curious that you held the Elder Wand’s allegiance for a brief period of time,” Ollivander said, as if reading Draco’s thoughts. “The method of victory was subtle, a simple Disarming spell, one that would not gain the allegiance of almost any other wand.”

Draco felt the familiar guilt and self-loathing fill him as he remembered that terrifying night at the top of the Astronomy tower, the look on Dumbledore’s face, the strange and utter peace that he seemed to hold in his blue eyes. He shook his head slightly, commanding himself to pay attention.

“It is this that makes me wonder over the status of the hawthorn wand.”

Draco hadn’t been expecting that.

“What?” he said. “Why?”

“If we follow the chain of allegiance of the Elder Wand, we see that young Mr Potter won it from you with a similar subtle method, a Disarming spell or something of that nature. The Elder Wand, not being especially loyal, then transferred ownership to him. However, hawthorn is not a wood that makes for easily-won wands, as you of course are aware of. When Mr Potter gained control and possession of your wand, there was a shifting of allegiances—that is for certain. Whether that allegiance was of _both_ the Elder Wand and the hawthorn wand or _only_ the Elder Wand, I must say that I do not know.”

Draco’s heartrate was definitely picking up now.

“How can we find out?” he asked.

To his surprise, Ollivander smiled at him.

“Come now, my boy. You know very well how to ascertain the allegiance of a wand. You must test it.”

* * *

 

“It’s bloody useless, Potter, I’m never going to get it,” Draco threw himself into a chair, frustrated.

“It was your _third_ try, Malfoy, you can’t give up that easy,” Potter said, rolling his eyes. “What memory were you thinking of?”

“That’s none of your business,” Draco retorted, automatically. Responding to Potter with snark almost seemed like a basic instinct at this point.

“I’m trying to _help_ you, Malfoy. I need to know if the memory was happy enough to even produce a Patronus. Just tell me what it was.”

“Fine!” Draco grumbled. “I thought about the first time I flew on a broomstick.”

Potter stared at him. It was a few seconds until it started to seem quite strange to Draco and he was about to ask what the prat was doing when suddenly, Potter started laughing. It was Draco’s turn to stare, as Potter just threw his head back and guffawed loudly.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about that!” Draco declared, getting to his feet and preparing to stalk off. He didn’t come here to get made fun of by Potter, that was for _damn_ certain. As he walked towards the door, however, Potter’s hand reached out and grabbed his arm, his fingers wrapping right around where, under his robes, Draco’s Dark Mark was.

“No, wait, I’m sorry,” Potter said, still grinning. “I’m not making fun of you, it’s just…that’s exactly the memory I chose the first time I tried to cast a Patronus.”

“Oh,” said Draco, unable to articulate anything else. Mentally, he cursed himself for being so ineloquent. “Well.”

“It didn’t work for me, either.” Potter continued. “You need something much stronger than that. Think about it. What’s a memory that brings you pure joy? That makes you feel warm and safe and happy inside?”

Draco searched through his brain, trying to think of an adequate memory that fit Potter’s description, and then it dawned on him. He couldn’t stop a small smile from crossing his face.

“My ninth birthday.”

Potter looked at him, curiously. “What happened on your ninth birthday?”

Draco looked back at Potter and considered repeating that it was none of his business, but it seemed so trivial a thing to say. After all, Potter was actually doing something nice for him here, and he had to make sure the memory was suitable anyway.

So what the hell, he thought.

“My father was away on business. At first, I was terribly upset with him. He’d never missed my birthday before, you see. I sat in my room, sulking all day, refusing to come down for breakfast or even open the presents he’d left for me.”

“So you were being a brat, as usual,” Potter interrupted, a stupid, wide smile still on his face. Draco scowled at him.

“Do you mind, Potter? I’m telling a story.”

Potter mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

Draco continued. “But then my mother came into my room and she said that if I wanted, I could go play by the creek.”

Potter’s eyebrows furrowed and he immediately broke his promise of staying silent. “What’s so special about the creek?”

“The creek’s just outside of the Manor’s grounds, it runs through the forest a few miles away. Father never let me play there because he said I would get all muddy, which was ‘unbecoming’ for a proper young man. But I’d _always_ wanted to; there were frogs in the creek and these beautiful red and white fish with fins that looked like dresses and all these different-coloured rocks at the bottom. So Mother said that if I promised not to tell Father, she’d take me out to the creek and I could play there as long as I wanted.” Draco didn’t even realize how much had tumbled out of his mouth until he was done.

Potter had an unreadable expression on his face, but his eyes were shining.

“So, did you? Play in the creek?” he asked.

Draco nodded, smirking slightly.

“It was glorious. I caught two frogs and found twelve different rocks and a Muggle twenty-pence coin to take home.”

Potter laughed, and, this time, Draco didn’t feel alienated by it. It was a warm sound, comforting even.

“Did your father ever find out?”

“Never,” Draco shook his head, the memory dying away. “He still doesn’t know.”

Potter seemed to pick up on Draco’s thoughts drifting to his father, who was now sitting in a cell in Azkaban, as he spoke up again.

“That seems like a good memory to use. Want to give it another go?”

Draco nodded and lifted his wand. He focused on the memory, on the sound of his mother’s laughs as he splashed around in the creek, on the feeling of wonder as he felt the beautiful fish tickling his feet as they swam around him. “ _Expecto Patronum!”_

A wisp of silvery mist shot out of his wand, twisting and spinning. Draco watched it, transfixed, as it danced around him and slowly faded away.

Behind him, Potter let out a loud whoop.

“That was brilliant, Malfoy!” he said, and clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder, hard.

Draco shook his head, despite how amazed he had been at the mist. “It didn’t take a form.”

“Well, you can’t expect it to the first time around! You gotta practice, that’s all. This is a big step, Malfoy, good job.”

Potter smiled at him, and Draco couldn’t help but think, _how bizarre. Harry Potter is smiling at me._

Maybe hanging around Luna Lovegood was having some sort of effect on him, because Draco did something spectacularly odd—he smiled back.


End file.
